


Patience

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Jealousy, Lust, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, References to Drugs, Self-Denial, Singing, Slow Burn, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: One where they are in Cannes for the Rocketman premiere, and they have it bad for each other."It's complicated, but understand me."





	1. Get Ready For It

**Author's Note:**

> Hi girls and gays! This is my first ever Madderton fic. Please be gentle?  
> Credit for my inspo goes to Bodyguard, the Cannes outfits, and most of all: the amazing writing on this platform. You people are truly the salt of the Earth.  
> (more notes at the end!)

It was sunny on the Croisette when they were cruising in the fairly (very) fabulous vintage convertible Corvette that Dex had managed to snatch for them to make their grand entrance in Cannes. He’d collected a favour from an old friend of his, simultaneously making one of Richard’s wildest dreams come true.

Rich was, in fact, the one driving the Vette, looking very smug in his crisp white linen shirt, Wayfarers and a tan chino, his hair perfect as usual (seemingly oblivious to being in open wind), and sporting a pair of leather _driving gloves_. Taron would be giving him hell about that particular detail for months to come, Richard could sense it from the way, since he’d put them on, his favourite Welshman had been sniggering at him from behind his Aviators every time he got distracted from the scenery and they made eye contact.

They had been driving on the French coast for a while. When the red Corvette had materialised in front of their eyes in the parking lot at Nice airport, Richard had to fight hard against his best instincts to squeal with excitement. It was the perfect day for a drive, too: not too warm—as “in the sun would scorch his forearms and leave weird tan lines” kind of warm—and not too cold—as in “I won’t be making to the premiere in good health conditions on the account of cold wind blowing in my face for forty-five-odd minutes” kind of cold. He’d looked at Taron as if to say _Hop on, babe, we’re going for a ride_. It was the wrong car to channel James Dean, but it wasn’t too shabby either. Not at all, in fact.

They played old rock’n’roll tunes, laughing at each other’s silly jokes, and generally just basking in the pleasant heat of the French sun. The conversation was, mostlythe standard catching up. Richard was going on _a lot_ , and maybe a tad too much, about how much he’d missed Europe (Taron) after moving to LA— _you know, T, you can come visit whenever you want!_ , which loosely translated to _“Please come visit soon, I miss your face so fucking much_ ). Taron’s grin was so wide by that point, he thought he might need stitching to repair the corners of his mouth.

When he replied that _yes, Madden, I will be visiting soon, can’t really go another four months without seeing those eyes, can I?_ , a fairly awkward silence settled between them. _Too far?_ Taron was usually always very unapologetically outspoken about his feelings for Richard, but he felt this lack of response from him to be a signal of something being slightly off. He didn’t want to think about it, however, not right there and then, not on their first day in bloody Cannes, not when they were basking in the glorious sun of the French Riviera. Therefore, he resolved to do what he did best: being bubbly and adorable.

He proceeded to spring up in his seat and planted a wet kiss on Richard’s temple. The kiss then turned into a smile while his lips were still in contact with Rich’s freshly shaven sideburn. Richard froze for a second, wondering if he would be able to keep them on the road. Richard had always thought that the French were shit drivers, and he would hate to break his immaculate driving record on the account of being ambushed by Taron’s _fluffy pillow lips_. Yes, he’d borrowed the epithet, so what.

Taron felt Richard’s face curl up into a big old grin. “Alreyt, Golden Boy? Excited much?” Richard asked, his hand coming up from the steering wheel to caress Taron’s cheek. _Smooth, Madden._

Taron inhaled Richard’s scent. He was wearing something foreign, something Taron wasn’t able to pinpoint. It was sweet yet musky at the same time. Like a manly bouquet.

Taron quickly suppressed the ridiculous thought of a _manly bouquet_ (whatever that was, because gendering inanimate objects was definitely not something he did every day), making a mental note of snooping in Richard’s bag of toiletries and spray the cologne all over his own clothes.

“We fucking made it, mate”, Taron then whispered in Richard’s ear. “We’re in motherfucking Cannes premiering our _baby_ ”, he reiterated, louder this time, before laughing out loud and whooping, throwing his hands in the air and deeply breathing in the salty breeze coming up from the sea. Holy _fucking_ Moses, he was pumped.

The colourful language was an unmistakeable sign: Taron cursed a lot when he was excited.

“Aye, we bloody are, mate.”

Richard’s heart instantly filled itself with pride and joy at the sight of his best friend being so completely and utterly happy. _And it’s all thanks to you, love._

The ride on the actual Boulevard de la Croisette was brief: their hotel, the InterContintental Carlton, was very well situated indeed. Richard left the Vette keys to a parking valet and walked around the car to start collecting their luggage.

Saying that Rich was packed light was an understatement: he effortlessly pulled the smallest wheelie suitcase (Vuitton, of course) and a slim backpack (Gucci, _of course_ ) out of the boot. He had done this before—not Cannes, but hey, Venice was basically the same gig—so he knew his clothes, accessories and other paraphernalia he might need would most definitely be brought to him on the days he was attending the festival, anyways. Other than that, he only really needed light shirts (perfectly ironed to the thickness of a sheet of paper, _thanks Mum for teaching me, so a good girl would want to marry me one day_ ), shorts (light and breezy, to work on tanning his legs), a swimsuit (flowery, because why not) and a carefully curated selection of toiletries (he was not getting any younger and he _needed_ his glycolic acid toner, thank you very much).

Taron, on the other hand, had obviously never learnt the mysterious craft of travelling light: he had packed everything he thought he could use, in double, because you never know, do you? He, too, had his mum to thank for it. _Make sure you have something for all sorts of weather_ had been his mantra for decades, and after 29 years spent doing exactly that, he was finally paying the price. He now looked like a right moron next to Richard bloody Madden and his modern-man-essentials-only carry-ons. He had felt especially daft when he had been forced to watch the check-in personnel at Heathrow put a “heavy” tag on his two oversized suitcases. To add insult to injury, the Corvette hadn’t been able to house everything he had brought with him, because of course it wouldn’t, it was a vintage convertible. This in turn had been the spark that lit the flame of a massive piss-taking party at Nice airport—Dex, Jamie, Richard, and a few other members of the crew joined in. It had been lovely. After they decided they were done mortifying him and his redneck ways, Jamie had _graciously_ agreed to take one of Taron’s suitcases in his own car, since they were staying at the same hotel, anyways. He couldn’t simply have done _that_ in the first place, could he? _The absolute tosser_.

Taron sighed from the seat of the Vette, glancing at the now scorching 11 AM sun and found himself wondering why on earth he had thought it appropriate to bring a cashmere cardigan. To the south of France. In May. Yeah.

He then made quite a show of pulling his oversized piece of luggage from the boot, thanked the valet, and joined Richard on the pathway to the entrance. He noticed Rich smiling devilishly at him, so he mechanically proceeded to flip him off and stick his tongue out at him— _yes, hi, hello, how do you do? I’m Taron Egerton, I just turned 5, and this is my very best friend, Dickie Madden, he’s 7, and we’re going to the big boys’ party tomorrow night._

At reception, they were greeted by an impeccably dressed young woman who, Taron could feel it, definitely knew who Richard was and was doing a poor job at hiding it. He was sure she must at least have one picture of Richard on her phone. Follow him on Instagram. Oh, and she definitely had lusted over Robb Stark, Cosimo de’ Medici and David Budd. _Oh, for God’s sake, Taron. Stop it._

The girl was all smiles when she handed them their key cards which, they both noticed, sported consecutive room numbers, 504 and 505.

 _Oh alright then, adjacent rooms. This won’t be a problem at all, ‘sall fine_ , Richard lied to himself.

“One more thing, gentlemen”, she tweeted, her French accent barely noticeable and, frankly, quite attractive. “As per your request, _messieurs_ , the rooms are adjoining.”

 _“As per your request”?_ Richard silently asked, while shooting a confused look at Taron, as if to ask what the hell the French bird was on about. What he got from Taron was an equally confused look and a shoulder raise, as if to say _no fucking clue, mate_. Taron then winked at him after turning back to face the receptionist.

“ _Merci_ _beaucoup_ , exactly what we asked for. You have yourself a great day, _mademoiselle_!”, he said, shooting her a piercing look and flashing her with his perfect teeth. Richard proceeded to roll his eyes. _Alright, cool down, loverboy, no need for shameless flirting in front of me, is there?_ Taron turned to face him, the key cards held firmly in his right hand.

“Let’s go check these bad boys out, Dickie.”

 

The lift quickly took them to the highest floor of the hotel, where, after a short walk, they found their rooms. The doors were close together, Richard’s on the left, Taron’s on the right. The shiny _505_ on Richard’s entrance suddenly took him back to being 21 and shamelessly high on life at an Arctic Monkeys concert in Glasgow. Give him an Alex Turner banger any day of the week and he’ll die a happy man. He smiled at the memory and turned back to Taron, who was observing him attentively, as if he was waiting for Richard to say something.

“So, the adjoining rooms. Wouldn’t that be Dex’s idea of a joke, by any chance?” Richard asked, crossing his arms and leaning on his door, a half smile painted on his lips.

Taron appeared to be struck by a bolt of realisation. “D’you know what, Madden, it actually might be. That man would do anything to get us together. I mean, after all, _he_ was the one who put us in bed together and made us kiss in a closet, wasn’t he?” Taron fondly recalled. _Didn’t mind that one at all, for the record._

Oh and of course Taron, not Dexter, had been the one asking for the adjoining rooms. Not directly, of course—he couldn’t afford the hotel people to know. He’d gone through an elaborate scheme involving Jamie, multiple PAs, several chocolate bars, a promise of tickets for Elton’s tour, and a few other elements which he would not disclose to anybody _ever_. His plan was so unbelievably complicated, he’d been more than relieved to learn from the lovely French girl at reception that he’d actually managed to pull it off. Unexpected, unhoped for, but _thank fuck_ anyways.

Before getting lost in his own head, as he so often did in Richard’s presence, Taron thought it wise to speak out. “Anyhoo, this living situation reminds me more of something else. Dunno if you got the chance to see that terrible BBC show that people seem to love so much. The leading man is quite good though, I suppose?”, he conceded.

It took Richard all of ten seconds to understand what on earth Taron was on about.

“You finally saw it, ye absolute bastard. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Dunno, maybe because I was paralysed with anxiety for a week after seeing it? And then of course it was time to pack for Cannes, so clearly that was another week of my life fully booked”, he regretfully admitted, gesturing quite dramatically in the general direction of his suitcase, which got a chuckle out of Richard. “So here we are now, Sergeant Budd. Bloody loved it.”

Oh, he _had_ loved it. The bomb disposal scene had positively petrified him and glued him to his couch the entire time. He had briefly considered ringing Richard right after, to make sure he hadn’t woken up that day with a banging head and wearing an explosive vest. He’d decided against it, though, and the moment they were sharing right then in the corridor was precisely the reason why. The most beautiful smile appeared on Richard’s face, and he blushed a little. _Like a puppy child_. Elton always had the right words, didn’t he?

“Oh, T. Thanks, man. Means a lot you watched it.” Richard started, scratching the back of his neck, shy as ever. _Gorgeous as ever_. “And thank you for not telling me that you’d started watching it. I’d have probably called you every five minutes to ask if you liked it or not.”

How could a human being be so indecently attractive and unbelievably adorable at the same time? Taron had yet to work that one out.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have, though. Hasn’t that golden statuette you have in your house said it loud enough, already?” Taron winked at him and fumbled with the key card holder. “Now please, honey. Let us check out the view from these bloody expensive hotel rooms. They better have put us on the right side of the building, I’m telling ya, mate.” _Right, coming off as a spoiled brat, way to go, Taron._

Richard agreed and proceeded to swipe his key card on his door handle. “See ye on the other side, Golden Boy.”

 _Golden Boy_ , Taron mused. Richard had started calling him that after they’d watched _Kingsman: The Golden Circle_ one night while shooting _Rocketman_ , since Richard had been unaware of Elton being in it. Richard had absolutely loved the film, and, for some reason, the nickname had stuck. Taron felt a rush of love for the man every time Richard called him that—which, for the record, was often. Richard would sometimes refer to him as Golden Boy while talking to _Elton_ , who happened to get the reference and who also absolutely loved it.

The room Richard entered was modern and roomy. King-size bed, huge flatscreen on the wall opposite, and the right amount of expensive décor—he knew he was bound to go on about the Philippe Starck bedside lamp to Taron for at least ten minutes that evening. The window had been opened a crack to let some air in, and Richard could smell the sea breeze coming in. _Definitely the right side of the building_.

The blinds were not fully open, probably a wise choice from the maid who’d done the room, since the sun was shining bright on the hotel and Taron and Richard, true to the princesses they were, deeply loathed excessive AC—a message which the hotel had heard loud and clear, it seemed, since it was not on. Richard walked up to the balcony door and opened the blinds: the view of the Croisette seafront was simply glorious.

“Wha’ a view, eh?”

Richard heard Taron call out from the other room. The connecting door was open, and Richard turned to look at Taron, who was standing in the frame. He was not basked in sunlight as Richard had anticipated, since his blinds were still closed. Richard’s brain made the connection surprisingly quickly: Taron was not talking about the Croisette.

Taron’s gaze locked in his, and Richard suddenly felt naked. There was an air to Taron, in that moment. A _no more bullshit, Madden_ air. His eyes were piercing. His mouth was slightly open, in the most delicious way possible. _This is going very well indeed_. Time to do something, quick.

Richard shook his head, bit down on his lower lip and ran a hand through his hair. _Hot in here, innit?_ “Alreyt T, please stop. I’m wearing crappy clothes and I’m sweaty. Not exactly James Bond, now, am I?”

Richard loved undermining himself, as Taron had come to know through the many months they’d spent together. It wasn’t even about fishing for compliments, he was just genuinely insecure. Probably aware he was good looking, but blissfully oblivious as to the degree of said handsomeness. Taron could have eaten him right there and then.

“Plus, I’m gunnae be in bespoke Armani for the premiere... If ye can’t handle me in casual clothes, ye’re definitely up for a heart attack tomorrow night.”

Taron was slightly taken aback, but he decided to play the game nonetheless.

“Alright, Dickie, full of yourself much?” Taron giggled, biting his own lip in turn. _Endless games with you, Madden_.

“Open yer bloody blinds, Eggsy.”

Yeah, Richard really did love the _Kingsman_ films. Taron blew him a kiss and strolled further into his room to look for the button that opened the blinds.

Richard took advantage of Taron’s absence and unpacked, his clothes only a little wrinkled but otherwise in perfect conditions. He then routinely checked the mini bar—very well stocked up, thank God—turned his portable Bluetooth speaker on, unbuttoned his shirt to his navel, and went on the balcony to smoke a quick cigarette. A few seconds after lighting it, he heard Taron’s voice call out once again.

“Gonna have to close your door if you really want to kill yourself with those, loverboy.”

 _Really_. This again. Richard was painfully aware that on top of the list of things Taron couldn’t stand was disrespect in every form and colour, but close second was undoubtedly the smell of stale cigarette smoke. When they were filming, Richard occasionally used to smoke in his trailer, so Taron had categorically refused to step in it for months. _The absolute drama queen_.

“Aye, sir!” Rich shouted, then shook his head, sighed and closed his balcony door. Oh, the _nerve_ to that boy.

Meanwhile, since Richard had turned it on but hadn’t decided on a song yet, Taron managed to hijack the Bluetooth speaker—as in, it connected automatically to Taron’s phone instead of Richard’s, because they both had paired it with their phones. _Too slow, Madden_. After very little pondering, Taron put on the first song that came to his mind to lure Richard in from the balcony. Actually, no, not the first one that came to his mind—that would have been _Bennie and the Jets_ —but the second. Taron had been feeling the _Kingsman_ vibe quite a bit that day, since Richard would not stop throwing references at him, so he thought it mighty appropriate to blast Take That’s _Get Ready For It_ from Richard’s speaker. He was hoping that the booming track that crowned the end of the first _Kingsman_ instalment would get his best mate’s inner showman out.

As if on cue, after only a few notes Richard dropped his cigarette in his ashtray, grabbed the first solid object he could reach—which happened to be the case for the Ray Bans he’d just put back on—and dramatically opened the door and jumped into the room, furiously lip-syncing to the song and using the case as a mic. Taron joined in on the verse, actually singing, of course, _the smug bastard and his perfect voice_. By the time they got to the chorus, though, Richard felt himself become a little bit more confident and belted out the words, grabbing Taron by the waist and letting him rest his head on his own shoulder.

_You said there’s only one place left to find_

_Together we can save the world tonight_

_Get ready for it_

They goofily sang along to the rest of the song, jumping around and having the time of their lives. By the end they were both panting and resolved to sit on Richard’s bed, big smiles on both their faces. Richard was suddenly so glad Taron had taken his musical virginity with _Honky Cat_. He would never dare to admit that to anybody ever, though, least of all the man himself, who now was looking inquiringly at him, as if he had just read his mind but stopped at “virginity”.

“Good Lord, Dickie,” he panted. “You have some stamina, laddie.” His fake Scottish accent was _terrible_ , but it never failed to crack Richard up.

Taron then proceeded to check his phone for the next song that had come up on his Spotify, who had gone into full radio mode. It was niche, but he knew it. _Face to Face_ was a song Gary Barlow had written for Elton, and he’d ended up having him sing on it. Taron wished he could write songs only just to be able to ring Elton up one day and ask him to sing with him again.

“In love with Gary Barlow much, are you T?” Richard asked, getting up from the bed, swinging his head to the melody, and looking so fucking adorable Taron could barely even hear the veiled jealousy in his voice. Or, at least, that’s what Richard had hoped for.

“More in love with Elton than everyone else, you know that. Although I’m gathering the courage to ask Elton to be introduced. Take That, man. My childhood.” Taron fondly recalled, his hand coming up to dramatically touch the left side of his chest. “Recording that track for _Eddie_ was just—I mean, c’mon, Dickie. The man’s a _genius_.”

“Nothing to do with the fact that he’s hunky as all hell, these days, has it?”

 _Oh, jealous Dickie was a favourite, alright_.

“Don’t know what you’re on about, Madden.” Taron affirmed, his words backed by a wicked half-smile and a dismissive hand gesture. “Plus, he’s not my type,” he lied through his teeth. Gary Barlow is _everyone_ ’s type. But. Not the point. “You _know_ what my type is, Dickie.” _There._

Richard felt himself blush and proceeded to shiver from his head down the tip of his toes. Oh, he _knew_ , alright. He was also very scared of knowing. What they had together was precious to say the least. He had never felt so at ease with a co-star, never made a friend so quickly, never had such a symbiotic relationship with anybody before. Granted, they had kissed and had had a very tender love scene together on camera, but Richard had been reluctant to take their real-life relationship any further than innuendos and accidentally brushing lips (Carpool Karaoke), hands (every damn day on set) or knees (under tables at dinners with Dex and the crew, where they were systematically sat next to each other). They texted constantly, FaceTimed whenever they weren’t together, spent nights on each other’s couches watching old movies and, what a _fucking cliché_ they were, listening to loads of Elton. And Bowie, of course. Couldn’t forget Bowie.

There was, alas, a “but” to the idyllic bubble they had found themselves in. Richard was dead scared of throwing himself into a romantic (and sexual) relationship with his best friend, because he’d done it once before. When it ended, well, he’d suffered _a lot_. She had completely disappeared from his life and had unapologetically taken a good chunk of his happiness away with her. Left him empty and numb. _Sex complicates everything_ , he remembered reading in a stupid magazine once. Which is precisely why he’d resolved to keep it platonic with Taron. Sweet-faced, adorable, _delicious_ Taron. But boy, oh boy, was it difficult sometimes. Case in point, their hotel room situation for the next couple of nights. Taron sending a relentless stream of lustful comments Richard’s way. Yeah. _Very. Fucking. Difficult._

He decided not to give the matter any more attention for the time being, more because he thought he might self-combust if he’d given Taron the time of day. Richard was painfully aware of who Taron’s type was. It kept him up at night sometimes.

“Get some trunks on, Golden Boy”, Rich said. “I’m taking you to the beach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So it all started as a one-shot and now it's a chaptered thingy. What can I say, they just came out of nowhere and ruined my life, so I want to explore this in minutious detail, I hope you don't mind.  
> Comments are so appreciated (you have no idea), so thank you in advance if you decide to leave one.  
> Love love love x


	2. Everything You've Come To Expect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys share a sunny afternoon at the beach. Questions are asked. Indecision is in the air. It's all very complicated.
> 
> _I guess the coastal air gets a boy to reflect._

Richard and Taron strolled out of the hotel together, looking like they were both born ready for the beach. And yet, they couldn’t have looked more different if they’d tried. Which, actually, thinking about it, Richard secretly suspected Taron had.

Richard was wearing his navy and burgundy flowery number, short enough that his legs would tan properly, _again, very important_ , a light blue linen shirt that perfectly matched his eyes (rolled-up sleeves, four buttons undone at the top, two at the bottom, the lad needed to _breathe_ ), his trusty Wayfarers, and night blue Havaianas. His hair was impeccable as usual. All in all, he was looking like a right French Riviera gentleman, ready for a glass of rosé on a yacht in St. Tropez.

Taron, as of him, had opted for something which had been described to Richard via a shout from Taron’s room as _just slightly flashy_. And what an understatement that had been. “Slightly flashy” had translated into Taron coming out wearing some of the shortest Versace swimming trunks Richard had ever seen, a canary yellow short-sleeved shirt to match the pattern on the waistband of his trunks, black flip-flops and… a pair of heart-shaped red sunglasses, with an understated dark grey Swarovski crystal frame.

_Yeah, definitely Elton’s._

When he first saw Taron in the corridor—since His Royal Highness had insisted on his _privacy_ while changing, like they hadn’t been balls naked in bed together before—Richard thought he might be having a heart attack.

This was so typical of Taron, it was almost not funny. His innate fashion sense had been infused with eccentricity since playing Elton, and now you wouldn’t catch him going out in anything which would have been labelled as “ordinary”. Even when he was sporting a plain white t-shirt and black trousers, he usually wore _something_ that stood out and caught the eye—be it a paisley-print blazer, a quirky hat, or the famous diamond earring Elton had entrusted him with. Taron always, without exception, looked like a million bucks.

Richard briefly wondered how many pieces of Elton’s wardrobe had made their way into Taron’s by then. Thinking about that made him astonishingly jealous, for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint—or, more likely, _didn’t want to_.

Heads turned for the both of them when, after crossing the Boulevard de la Croisette, they got to the beach. Not exactly a discreet outing, but then they were there premiering the queerest movie of the year, so who the fuck cared, really.

Plus, that was the beach that had been the backdrop for the iconic _I’m Still Standing_ video, so the French Riviera was definitely used to the kind of camp eclecticism Taron was bringing to the game that day.

For his part, Taron thanked the gay gods (Elton) for letting him have those sunglasses. The look on Richard’s face had been priceless to say the least, and Taron was positively basking in the glory of having that effect on him. The only thing that’d have made it better would have been having the guts to go out in full-on hot pants—because of _course_ he owned the speedo version of that exact Versace design—but he had decided against it. Some things were better left to the imagination, and besides, he was hoping Richard would be more interested in Taron purposefully giving him the eye and being adorable than spending the afternoon looking at his massive thighs and arse.

 _You keep telling yourself that, Taron_.

Just as they stopped on the side of the cycling path to let a family on bikes roll past them, Richard turned to Taron and smiled broadly at him. He got a wide grin back from the man in the Elton glasses, who then proceeded to squeeze his bicep affectionately.

_Ah, yes, physical contact._

How fucking precious Taron was, Richard thought while walking beside him and seeing him positively _strutting_ his way into the beach bar Elton had recommended. Excited like a teenage boy, his clothes unapologetically loud, and his good energy absolutely contagious. This was his first day in Cannes, his first major film festival, the biggest achievement in his artistic life: all of those things were all happening at once. And Richard was so glad _he_ was the one sharing this moment with Taron. For the umpteenth time that day, Richard felt his heart swell up. He could barely comprehend how absolutely, completely and utterly proud he was of Taron. The man truly deserved the world. Deserved to be loved properly.

 _Deserves better than little old me_.

While Richard was going on miserably trying to paint the picture of a romantic future for Taron which did not involve himself breaking the friendzone barrier, and failing miserably—his mind flashed back to Benedict Cumberbatch saying something about fourteen-odd million possible scenarios and only one being the one where the Avengers would win (which, by the way was a _fucking weird_ connection to make)—Taron had managed to get them an isolated spot in the sun, as well as making sure “cold beer and snackies” (his words) would be brought to their tanning spot.

“All sorted, Dickie. C’mon, let’s go get some vitamin D on your pasty Scottish arse.”

Richard stopped in his tracks and made a show of sliding his shades over his nose, so that he could send a piercing look Taron’s way which screamed _Excuse me, my_ what _now?_

“Yers is not any better, ya know, ya wee dobber.” Richard knew it Taron was gagging for him to bring the Scottish insults out, so he did.

Taron felt weak at the knees for a split second. The accent, the dialect, the _eye contact_ , it was all too much. And his shorts, albeit not being the tightest he owned, were not allowed to betray him now. It wasn’t even noon yet, for fuck’s sake. Taron resolved in lifting his hands in defeat—"choose your battles” and all that—but then inspiration struck, and he found himself firing back, blabbing something about his own Welsh arse admittedly needing some TLC as well.

 _And like that, I win that round, Madden_.

Richard almost, _almost_ groaned out in frustration. He couldn’t give Taron that satisfaction—not in a million years. His Scottish arse, on top of being pale, also happened to be extremely smug and sassy. So, he retorted.

“We’ll see about that, T. If you’re a good boy, maybe.”

 _Ding ding ding._ _I can do this all day, Golden Boy._

The ball was back in the middle of the field. Yeah, Taron had a thing for that. A _praise kink_ , he thought the people called it. He had a thing for people— _Richard_ —telling him he was pretty and how well he was doing and… A selection of colourful images clouded his vision for half a heartbeat, and in that brief timespan Richard started walking again, leaving him with his mouth slightly agape, standing still on the beach, like a loon. He jogged to keep up.

Richard smiled to himself. The innuendo war was going very well indeed.

Taron thought it better to zip it when, after a thirty-second walk which had felt like a five-hour hike, they finally got to their sun beds, because he knew full well the moment that was coming right after would be a whole other thing.

Watching Richard undress was nothing new, they’d been naked in front of each other— _on top_ of each other—a few times on set, and yet Taron thought he’d never get used to how seeing Richard’s exposed skin made him feel.

For example, there was that Richard’s stupid hands were now lightly tugging at his rolled-up sleeves to push them back down on his disgustingly perfect forearms. Then his absolutely moronic left hand was wondering somewhere above his dumb right shoulder, to pull at the back of the shirt and get it over his shitty perfect head in a sickeningly smooth move.

All that suffering, and for what? Endure more, it seemed, since now Taron could see more than Richard’s chest hair—which, let’s face it, was a definite favourite—and toned forearms. Now _everything_ was on show.

The toned, broad shoulders, that Taron wished he could grab onto for dear life. The broad, muscular chest, that Taron wished he could cover in scratches. The not-too-in-your-face six pack, that Taron most definitely wanted to welcome all over his face. And don’t even get him started on _that thing_ , the trail of hair leading down from his navel to the bloody promised land.

Taron’s senses were heightened by the fact that they were alone in an unfamiliar place, the awareness that they were basically sharing a hotel room, because _thank the Almighty_ (Elton), Taron’s plan had worked, and the fact that he hadn’t seen Richard in many moons—and, despite having fantasized about Richard undressing for him day and night, well, simply imagining it was just not the same. _Bodyguard_ had helped. A bit. ‘Specially the sex scenes. Shame she had to go and get herself blown up right away, the silly woman.

 “Oi, T.” Richard was snapping his fingers at him. “Ma’ eyes are up ‘ere, laddie.”

Richard kept score in his mind, cherishing his newly acquired dominance over the flirty game they were playing. He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being looked at that way by the person he loved and desired most in the whole world, and whom he could not bring himself to say yes to.

 _You’re such a Romeo, Richard. Thought you were done with that angsty teenage gobshite. What do you_ really _want?_

When he finally snapped out of it and managed to dismiss Richard by flipping him off, Taron was once again thankful for the statement sunnies he was sporting that day. The exposure of Richard’s body had caused the temperature of his body to rise to what he only could imagine would be, approximately, one million degrees. He had felt a familiar pang in his lower stomach region, and he’d bitten down hard on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to shut everything off. Which in turn had only resulted in his eyes filling with tears, because _damn,_ it had hurt.

“I know, old tart. Just distracted, ‘s all. Too much beauty around me these days.” And he meant it.

All Richard wanted to do there and then was drop everything he was holding, grab Taron by the collar of his stupid canary yellow t-shirt and kiss him into oblivion. Which, of course, he didn’t do. Because he was a moron. And because the metaphorical chastity belt he was wearing was well in place, despite Taron’s best efforts. Every time Richard thought about that, he was immediately met with the haunting mental image of them actually giving it a try romantically, only for him to manage to fuck everything up and lose Taron forever. And that simply couldn’t happen. So _friends_ it was, for now, it seemed.

The waitress coming to their spot with two Coronas and a giant platter of the aforementioned “snackies” interrupted Richard and Taron’s reveries. They both thanked and tipped her generously, and settled onto their respective sunbeds, in the shade of their beach umbrella.

“Cheers, Madden. To us. Whatever happens tomorrow night, it’s been a great ride.” Taron raised his bottle and clinked it against Richard’s.

“Pleasure’s been mine, dearie. You’re a fucking star.”

They both took a few generous gulps of the chilled beer and proceeded to sigh, almost in unison.

“Grand bloody life this is, eh, T?” Richard asked, stretching his legs to their full length on the sunbed and sliding his glasses onto his hair, so that his blue eyes were staring straight at Taron for the first time since they’d left the hotel.

“You bet your pale Scottish arse it is.”

Richard raised his eyebrows at him.

_Oi, enough about my arse now._

“Speaking of,” Taron continued, the heart-shaped sunnies coming off, his shirt following right after. “Be a good lad and do my back?”

 _Ah, right, the game._ Richard had almost forgotten about it. And now it was back on. And Taron had just undressed, casually asking him to perform prolonged skin to skin contact. _Yeah, so, rationalizing it doesn’t make it any better, does it._ Richard finally understood that his was going to be the longest day of his life.

“Sure, no problem, T.”

Richard grabbed the bright orange tube of SPF 30 that Taron was handing him, and he watched his body shift around in his sunbed to expose his back. Taron’s hands automatically went under his head, and he arched his upper back to give him a smoother surface to work on.

_Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Here goes nothing._

Richard managed to cock it up from the get-go by squirting way too much sunscreen onto his left hand. _Classic_. He would have to rub extra hard for it to sink in properly. He resorted to collecting it with his right index and dabbing it all over Taron’s upper and lower back. By the time he’d generously covered Taron’s back with dots that, frankly, were a pretty close match for those hilarious motion capture thingies Benedict Cumberbatch had worn for portraying Smaug (what _was_ with him and Cumberbatch that day?), nearly half the sunscreen was still in his hand. He was left with no other choice than to proceed to apply the rest over Taron’s thighs and legs.

At that point, Richard’s gaze inevitably dropped to inspect Taron’s trunks. Blackest of blacks, the iconic pattern on the waistband, short enough to show off his fabulous thighs but not tight enough to hug the whole curve of his bottom—that _perfect, peachy bum_ —quite in the way Richard had hoped. Although it probably was even worse like this, because actually seeing it had nothing on letting his filthy mind wonder. And suddenly he realized something, something he would never admit to anyone else under any circumstance.

_We are going to fuck, this weekend, aren’t we?_

It all made sense right there and then. All the facilitation. The adjoining rooms. The constant physical proximity. Heavy drinking. More freedom. Less restraints— _self-_ restraints, more accurately. Was sex with Taron worth potentially throwing that kind of friendship away? Or, on the contrary, would that help Richard finally make peace with the fact that, yes, he was head over heels for the boy and yes, there was a meagre chance that Taron’s act wasn’t just about sex, but something more?

Richard went on a wild ride pondering this, all the while making an effort on a particular tight knot on Taron’s right shoulder. _Richard Madden, 32, actor, turned masseur for the day._

“You have a real talent for this, Dickie… _Ow_ that hurts… Has anyone ever told you before?” Taron mutters, thoroughly enjoying the impromptu massage Richard has decided to gift him with.

“Yeah, I’ve been told _both_ those things, actually. Albeit on different occasions.”

 _Oh, Madden_.

“That was lovely, thank you, darling.”

“Yeah and it’s not free, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Gunnae think of something ye can do for me later, sunshine.”

 _Oh, so_ that _’s what we’re doing, huh?_

“Well, sign me up for _that_ , Madden, you absolute slag.”

In-between innuendos, the afternoon went by in a blur. They both felt so peaceful and content, so completely and utterly at ease with each other, that the buzz of anxiety and anticipation for the premiere was _almost_ forgotten for the duration of their beach escapade.

They took turns in and out of the shade, they went on a couple of walks on the shore, they had two more beers each and several in delicious bite-sized portions of food, they shared long silent moments reading their books behind sunglasses, and they generally spent their time telling bad jokes and enjoying each other’s company.

It was all just so… natural. That was the best way Richard could describe it. Which is precisely what made him start to shake off the seemingly steadfast resolution he’d made at the beginning of their magical afternoon together.

When they were walking back to the hotel, Richard allowed himself to contemplate the fact that maybe, just maybe, there could be a chance for them.

When he saw the way Taron smiled at him before swiping the key card on his lock, Richard was a tad more convinced that he should give it a shot.

When, after retiring to the pre-assigned sides of their basically shared room to shower and do whatever they needed to do to look dashing for a night on the town, he heard Taron’s music playing loudly, he finally knew.

_Everything you’ve come to expect_

_I guess the coastal air gets a boy to reflect_

_Everything you’ve come to expect_

_I just can’t get the thought of you and him out of my head_

Richard couldn’t get rid of that thought, either.

Silently thanking Alex Turner for that tidbit of clarity, Richard dried his hair and considered that, probably, the night would decide for them, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me! I hope you like the story. I've got many more chapters coming. If you enjoy, please consider commenting, it really means a lot when you do. Love you all xx


	3. Social Disease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it's all going swimmingly over a few glasses of Prosecco, until it's not.

Richard was choosing a shirt from the limited selection he’d carefully curated, ironed, and arranged in his small carry-on bag—Tetris-like, to maximise capacity and minimise creasing, when his phone buzzed from where it was charging on the bedside table.

Jamie’s stupid face, under the name “Bernie”, was flashing on Richard’s screen. FaceTime, no less. Richard pressed the green button to take the call.

“Madden!” Jamie chirped, his smile sweet and contagious.

“You alreyt James, ye old tart?”

“Not too shabby, mate. Hotel’s _dandy_ to say the least.”

“Innit though?” Richard replied, walking up to the window and shooting a longing look at the Croisette. The sunset had tinted it orange and pink, the sea breeze was flowing in, and everything he wanted in that moment was to watch the idyllic scene while holding Taron in his arms.

“How’s Kate?” Richard added, a second later, forcing himself out of his daydream.

 _This has to stop, seriously_.

“She’s grand, mate! Excited like a little girl. Baaabe, come say hi to Madden!” Jamie called out to his wife, then proceeded to flip the phone camera from front to back, to which Richard wanted to butt in and say _it’s not really necessary, you eejit, she’s probably showering or something_ , but Jamie was quicker, and Richard didn’t manage to get a word in.

Sure enough, Kate’s head popped out of the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel. She beamed, smacked a kiss at him and waved her hand.

“Hi there, little princess!” Rich greeted her, his eyes smiling at the cute girl on the screen.

“Hi, gorgeous. How are ya? Excited much already?” she inquired, her face coming more and more into focus—Jamie was probably moving towards her. All wrapped up in the fluffy white bathrobe and towel, she looked even tinier than she actually was. She took the phone, flipped the camera once again to face her, and smiled, sweetly.

“’Course I am. Also, _very_ fecking scared”, Richard admitted, sighing out loud. “But I’m trying to tell myself I’d better be concentrating on micro-managing Golden Boy back there. Looks like he’s holding up now, but I’m afraid the nerves will catch up wi’ him as soon as he hears that _David, Elton and Bernie have arrived_.”

He whispered the last few words, since Taron was not supposed to know that yet. Elton had texted Richard a few minutes earlier. Upon opening the WhatsApp, Richard had found himself staring at a selfie of the three of them in front of a helicopter.

_We’re here, sweetie! David and Bernie say hi xxx_

The text that had followed suit instructed Richard not to inform Taron they’d landed in Cannes a day before they were supposed to, because Elton was well aware that this particular piece of information would send him in a neurotic frenzy.

_Better let him enjoy a carefree evening, tomorrow’s going to be wild enough_

_Take care of him, I trust you Rich x_

Elton’s orders weren’t up for discussion, so radio silence and managing Taron’s anxiety with a few cocktails it would be. Easy, right?

“Oh, aren’t you a sweet thing. Taking care of him like you do. Seriously, Rich, you sure you don’t want to give him a chance?”

Kate looked slightly panicked for a second, then surreptitiously shot a glance off camera, most likely in the general direction of her husband.

_Huh?_

“I beg yer pardon, little lassie?” Richard inquired, furrowing his brow and scratching his beard.

Kate put a hand over her mouth, making quite a poor job of hiding the wide grin behind it.

“Gotta go dry my hair, see you tomorrow, stud!” she dismissed herself, quickly making her exit back where she’d come from, her waving hand lingering to say both “bye, bye” to Richard and “deal with it how you want, honey” to Jamie. Richard heard Jamie sigh out loud and saw the camera move slightly, before Jamie’s face appeared back on the screen.

Richard couldn’t help but notice Jamie had put his best Billy Elliott face on. That only happened whenever he’d done something he wasn’t supposed to do.

_Has he been blabbing again?_

“James.”

“Richard.”

“What’s your lovely, _lovely_ wife on about?”

“No idea, mate!”

Oh, what a bad liar Jamie was.

“Ye’ve told her, haven’t ye.”

It wasn’t even a question.

“…no?” Jamie lied again—badly, shamelessly, flagrantly.

“Oh, Jamie” Richard groaned, sitting back down on his bed and covering his face with his hand. “Why in the world would ye blab about it. It’s bad enough as it is.”

Jamie sighed, then ran a hand over his eyebrows.

“Listen, mate. I’m sorry…” Jamie started, before having a change of heart and continuing. “Oh, you know what? I’m _not_ , actually.”

Jamie’s face went abruptly stern. Flashes of one particular scene from _Nymphomaniac_ were suddenly making an appearance in Richard’s mind.

_Don’t be a depraved little twat in the middle of a serious conversation, Richard. Come on._

“Richard. I love you dearly, you know that. But you really need to get a grip and cut the fucking bullshit.”

And in that moment, Richard felt like he’d been slapped in the face. Granted, with a side of affection and respect and all the positive feelings in the world, but what a _blow_ it had been.

_Yeah. Bet that’s how Charlotte Gainsbourg must have felt, too._

“Excuse me?” Richard tried, knowing full well where the conversation was going. He really wasn’t keen on hearing what was coming up.

“No, no, no.” Jamie wasn’t having it. “You need to stop it, mate. This is the perfect setting, the perfect opportunity, don’t let it go to shite this time, eh?”

Richard felt like he’d been backed against a wall and couldn’t find any words to retort. He knew all that already. He _knew_ Jamie was right. He had kind of made peace with it just ten minutes earlier. He was just, well—petrified of what it all actually meant.

“Taron hasn’t shut up about you for _months_ , mate. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s been _googling_ you, obsessing over pap photos, for fuck’s sake. Took me a whole week to convince him that Brandon Flynn was _definitely_ not your type.”

Blood rushed to Richard’s ears at that. He imagined Taron on his phone, pinching away at those dumb pictures, trying to pick up any hidden details of his relationship with Brandon. At that, Richard didn’t manage to suppress a wide grin.

Jamie’s expression softened, his boyish charm back in full force with a swift curl of the corners of his lips and a twinkle in his eyes.

 _Damn you and your stupid pretty face_.

“Dickie.”

“Hmm?”

“Please, give him a chance. Do it for me, yeah? The man’s _obsessed_.”

“Ye really think so?”

“Damn right I do.”

Long-awaited reassurance flooded Richard’s heart, more quickly than he’d anticipated. He was so grateful Jamie was in his life, playing Cupid and generally being the best friend a man could ask for.

“I love you, James.”

“Yeah, yeah, you do. Now go get pretty, eh? And get that anxious look off your face, does fuck all for you.”

“Sod off.”

“Go get him, tiger.”

“See ye tomorrow, ye lil’ twat.”

Jamie signed off with a smooch towards the camera, and Richard felt like fifty tons had just been lifted off his chest.

 

In the other room, Taron was in his underpants, rocking his socks off to _Social Disease_. Shampoo bottle in his hand to stand in for a mic, hair still wet, manic grin on his face. He was genuinely and completely happy, although the exaggerate jumping around was probably just overcompensation for the growing pain in the pit of his stomach, which had started building up at the thought of what was about to unfold the following day.

_Nerves, man._

He found himself staring at his face in the large mirror next to the bed. His face was just slightly red from being in the sun all afternoon, that kind of light sunburn which would most likely turn into a tan. He ran a hand through his damp hair. He sighed out loud, just as _Social Disease_ faded into _Harmony_.

Who was he kidding? Crippling anxiety was getting at him faster than he’d anticipated. He felt blessed Elton wasn’t in Cannes yet, because he had pinpointed the fact that his arrival would make it all oh so unbelievably real. He could see it all in his head. What would probably feel like the longest bloody movie screening of all time. The pinnacle of his career. In short, just the most important night of his life. No big deal. _No fucking pressure._

Thank fuck it was still just him and Richard that night.

Elton’s words, appropriate as ever, flowed out the speaker.

_Harmony, gee, I really love you_

_And I want to love you forever_

_And dream of never, never, never leaving Harmony_

The evening was warm, pleasant, perfect for a drink outside and, why not, maybe even a sneaky cig. Because, who the hell was he kidding, he _needed_ that.

He chose his outfit carefully, because he felt like dressing to impress. Especially because the person he was trying to impress was always, without exception, dressed to the nines.

After much deliberation, Taron went for a slim-fit lavender shirt, sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone, a cream-coloured chino, a pair of light caramel brown Oxfords, and a matching belt. He smiled at himself in the full-length mirror of his room, longingly recalled afternoons spent being fitted for a bespoke suit, and mused about Colin probably being proud of him for this outfit, if he could see it.

_The perfect seaside gentleman._

He retrieved his bottle of _Terre d’Hermès_ from his toiletries bag and lightly sprayed the perfume on the sides of his neck, a tad on his wrists and, for good measure—and, because Jude Law in _Alfie_ was his ultimate role model when it came to seduction, he spritzed a bit down his trousers, too.

 _Perfect_.

 

Taron waltzed in Richard’s room unannounced. No knocking, no _are you decent?_ , no nothing.

His presence was sprung on Richard like a thunderstorm. And, boy, Taron was gorgeous.

Richard was, for the record, decent. His thoughts at the sight of the man who had just materialised in the corner of his room, however, were not.

The way Taron’s shirt hugged his shoulders and his hips. The way his butt and thighs stood out, clad in his fitted trousers. The way his slightly sunburnt, slightly tanned skin was in perfect contrast with the light colours he was wearing. The way his hair looked blonder, and his eyes a lighter shade of green.

It was all Richard could do to exercise his practised—and now _extremely_ _painful_ —self-restraint, keep his hands to himself and not peel each and every piece of clothing from Taron’s body and have his way with him.

Meanwhile, it was obvious that Taron was scrutinising Richard’s reaction, eyebrows raised, smug grin on his pretty face, looking slightly too pleased with himself for Richard’s liking.

_Oh, fucking hell._

“Y-ye… Should knock, next time”, Richard managed, trying and failing to sound sassy and displeased—his eyes transfixed on Taron, his fingers still wrestling with buttons on his chest. He suddenly felt very flustered and, looking at Taron, also _underdressed_ , for the first time in his life.

He had gone smart casual—a white shirt, dark blue jeans, light brown boat shoes, no socks. And now Taron was there, looking like _that_.

“Sorry, Dickie”, Taron started. Then he gestured at his own body. “Too much?”

_Always too much. Never too much._

“N-no, you look—great, T. Really great.”

_Get a grip, Richard, seriously._

Taron smiled softly at him.

“Thanks. You too, by the way,” he stated, before turning to glance at the seafront from the open balcony door. Everything was going swimmingly.

Taron was sporting a stupid grin he really couldn’t erase from his face, no matter how hard he tried. He resolved to turning back to face Richard, who was spraying himself with cologne.

Taron suddenly got very excited about it. He intercepted the bottle as soon as Richard put it down—which gained him a confused look from those dreamy blue eyes—and proceeded to turn it over in his hands. The rectangular, clear bottle, filled with light green liquid, read _Pour un homme de Caron_.

 _Knew it was some expensive foreign shite. Smells fucking_ divine _._

“I’m thinking we’re overdue an _apéro_. Shall we, Madden?”

A wink. A cheeky smile. Richard was absolutely done for. And it was barely 7 PM.

“Dunno about you, T, but I’m gasping for some Prosecco.”

 

After catching an Uber for a frankly embarrassingly short journey, they arrived at their coveted destination.

Le 360° was a rooftop bar with a sickeningly beautiful view on the Vieux Port and the Palais des Festivals. When they made their way through the terrace and to the table they had booked, the sun was just setting. The air was still warm, and the most delicate breeze was blowing. It was _perfect_.

Richard found himself hoping and praying that the place and the whole situation were idyllic enough around to make Taron momentarily forget about what would happen the next evening in the very building they were sat in front of.

The view positively took Taron’s breath away. He felt so blessed in that moment, admiring a spectacular sunset in one of the most beautiful places in the world, on a night out with the object of his most forbidden romantic and sexual fantasies. Everything was right in the world. Everything, except maybe the fact that Richard wasn’t kissing him. Yet.

_Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow, after the premiere. If I’m not too wrecked._

They ordered a bottle of Prosecco to share, and they were presented with the most stunning selection of finger food, which was a good job, because both their stomachs were growling. Then, not for the first time that day, they brought their wine glasses together and toasted.

“To us”, Taron finds himself reiterating. He really means it, this time. Not that he hadn’t before, on the beach, but this was different. This was, well, a whole other setting. Beautiful. Couple-y. _Romantic_.

“To us”, Richard echoed.

The amount of times Taron got lost while Richard was telling him about it some job or other he’d auditioned for, because he was glancing hungrily at Richard’s lips moving—and imagining kissing them—was frankly starting to add up to a ridiculous figure.

_Is this a date, Dickie?_

Because it looked like one. Richard was pondering shifting the subject on, well, asking _that_ question, actually, because he’d tortured himself long enough and had been rightfully scolded by Jamie earlier that evening for not having the balls to be upfront about his feelings.

So yeah. He was going to do it. He was going to do it right then.

“T?”

“Yes, Rich?”

“Is t—”

Just as Richard started to speak, he was interrupted by a shrilling female voice, coming from right behind the corner of his eye.

“Gentlemen? Excuse us?”

Richard turned around and found himself facing two girls. One brunette, little black dress, sweet face, killer curves heavy on the red lipstick. One redhead, fresh-faced, big blue eyes, long green dress—like Keira Knightley’s in _Atonement_. They were looking at them both with literal stars in their eyes. They were, Richard found himself thinking, both _very pretty_.

“We’re... We’re so sorry to disturb you during your _apéro_ …” the brunette started, her hand now on the top of Richard’s chair, long burgundy acrylics reflecting the light of the candles.

“No, no problem at all,” Richard replied, automatically, ever the gentleman, his killer smile quickly unleashed.

Taron shot a desperate look at Richard, a look that spoke a thousand words, most of them being around the concepts of _Keen much, Madden?_ and _Oh no, not tonight, you won’t_. He then decided to bless the girls with a smile of his own and greeted them just as kindly—because, frankly, what the fuck else could he have done.

 _Manners. Maketh. Man._ _Breathe, Taron_.

“We just wanted to say… We’re big fans, of both of you!” the redhead continued, and looked at Taron like she could be swooning at any minute in the very near future.

They had French accents. They were _cute_ , both of them, although in very different ways. They were in their mid-twenties and living their best life. They were so starstruck, and yet so flirtatious at the same time. And, damn it, they were _sitting down_.

 _Why, Madden, why do you_ always _do this?_

Richard couldn’t help himself. The invitation had escaped his lips without his brain realising the inappropriateness of it in the context they two of them were at the moment.

He then turned to look at Taron, and immediately started regretting his life choices, _big time_.

At that point Taron really, really wanted to make a scene. Excuse himself to the bathroom and never come back, start a seemingly out-of-the-blue argument with Richard, or maybe just suddenly stand up and walk a couple of feet away to admire the view, away from the chit-chat and the sickening perfumes the girls were wearing. He did not, however, do any of those things, because he was not _that_ big of an idiot.

They were on more than just a press trip. They were in bloody _Cannes_ for the bloody _festival_ , for fuck’s sake. Any peculiar behaviour from either of them was sure to be picked up in a split second by passers-by, who would then most likely blab to the press about it. The _Mirror_ and the _Sun_ feasted and thrived on that kind of bullshit, and Taron wasn’t going to be the one to line their pockets by throwing a tantrum because of some momentarily unwanted attention from two lovely ladies.

So, the plan had to be different. He let ten minutes pass, then fifteen, during which eyelids were batting, arms were touched, and wine glasses were emptied—Richard’s and the girls’, because the Prosecco had started to taste rotten in Taron’s mouth since the first time the brunette had attempted to make a move on Richard.

By the twenty-minute mark, Taron got his phone out. His screen flashed, and he was met by his lockscreen—a photo of him and Elton in matching stage costumes that Dex had took on their last day of shooting. He did not linger on the picture as was his habit, however, since he was on a mission and had to be quick and subtle about it.

He shot a text to Jamie that read _Pls call me_.

One minute later, his phone started buzzing. Oh, _thank God_.

“So sorry, ladies, got to take this”, he excused himself, a finger pointing at his phone. _The big man is calling_ , he mouthed, his finger then meeting his lips in a shooshing gesture, swearing them to secrecy.

 _Elton_ was calling? Richard doubted that with a passion.

The brunette, Clara, was telling him all about how much she’d loved _Medici_. Something fairly witty about Cosimo never having truly loved Contessina, because the dome had been his one true love all along. Richard agreed and chuckled in earnest at that, although he couldn’t help but spy on Taron from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, great, mate, we’ll be right there then! See you in a jiffy!”, Taron practically shouted over his phone, so everyone at the table—and the rest of the people on the terrace, for that matter—could hear.

“Everything alreyt, T?” Richard inquired, resting his glass on the table and uncrossing his legs.

The girls were speaking French and giggling.

Taron shot Richard a look. For the third time that day, Richard felt like he’d been stripped of all of his clothes.

“Jamie. He invited us out for dinner, we should go.” His tone was harsher than he’d aimed for, his stare hard, his teeth slightly clenched.

Richard got the message big time.

“ _Mesdemoiselles_ , we’re very sorry but we’re going to have to go”, Richard announced, fake disappointment painted on his face on command. Again, he hadn’t won a Globe because of his pretty face. Oh, alright, well, not _just_ because of his pretty face.

In a choir of “oh nooo!” and “so soon!” and “here’s my number, call whenever you’re around, _oui_?” Taron and Richard said their goodbyes.

Walking back from the table, Richard couldn’t help but notice that Taron’s face seemed to have significantly darkened. His fears ended up being confirmed when, while he was getting the bill at the counter, Taron suddenly stormed off.

When he saw him walk away, Richard shot his head to the side of the counter, following Taron’s direction. He knew jealous Taron when he saw him, and a pang of guilt suddenly got him, right in the guts, and he felt like the world was quickly crashing down on him.

Thankfully—God bless contactless—he was quickly done with paying the bill and the waiter, to whom he’d slipped a twenty-euro bill and muttered a broken _bonne soirée_ , said goodbye to him smiling broadly.

Richard jogged up to Taron, who did not slow down until they got to the lift, at which point he was forced to stop.

“Everything okay, T?”, Richard asked, tentatively.

Taron was boiling, Richard could feel it from a metre away. His stomach hurt a little more.

“Charming, weren’t they?” Taron snapped, his head rapidly turning to make eye contact with Richard.

“Clara, wasn’t it? Reminded you of Jenna, eh? That why you let her—ah, you know what, nevermind,” Taron groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’ve clearly been reading this completely wrong. Whatever _this_ is.” He gestured at them both, alternatively, with his index finger.

Taron’s words hurt. Richard felt the knot in his stomach move right up to his oesophagus. This _was not happening_.

“Taron,” Richard pleaded, his hand gently going to Taron’s shoulder. “It’s not—"

“No, Rich, not again. I think I’ve made my intentions quite clear, haven’t I? I also think I’m quite done making a fool of myself.”

“T—”

“You’re a big lad, Richard. You can do whatever you like. Go back to them, or don’t, _I. Don’t. Care._ ”

Quoting John Reid back at him? Oh, that was subtle. But not even _remotely_ okay.

“Have a good night,” Taron added, when the lift finally opened, and stepped in.

Richard groaned in frustration, then snapped back, because, again, this simply was not happening.

“Oh, Taron, for _fuck_ ’s sake.”

Richard stormed into the lift and, after checking it was empty, immediately backed Taron up against one of the walls, pinning him to it.

His actions spoke louder than anything he could ever have articulated into words, and it was a good job they did, because nothing witty or sassy was really about to come out of his mouth.

 

Taron suppressed the wave of arousal that hit him as soon as Richard’s weight was on top of him.

 _Bingo_ , Taron thought. His little performance had worked like a charm. And now for the final act.

He saw it happening in slow motion, almost exactly as he’d imagined it. Richard’s mouth starting to inch closer to his own, Richard’s hands cupping the sides of his face, the smell of Richard’s cologne numbing his senses.

 _Can’t let you win this one, sorry, Madden_.

“Oh, alright then. My bad,” Taron then whispered, his lips mere millimetres from Richard’s.

The smuggest look on his face.

Richard sighed out in frustration and moved back, away from Taron’s face, his expression the picture of exasperation. Taron was a great actor, indeed. So great, in fact, that Richard felt a sudden urge to slap him across his pretty face to stop him from ever playing him like that again. He did, however, return Taron’s wicked smile.

 _Oh, you little_ twat.

And then Taron’s hand was on Richard’s chest, caressing it, but also ever so slightly pushing Richard’s body away. This visibly confused Richard, so Taron was quick to provide context.

“The lift’s made of glass, moron.”

“Oh. Reyt. Whoopsie.”

They burst into laughter at this. Chuckling like maniacs, actually, since tension had now been released, and both of them were very amused by the mental image of paparazzi photos of their steamy makeout session in a glass elevator ending up all over British tabloids the next day.

Dexter would have had their dicks for it. Elton probably would have applauded their efforts.

Richard resolved to simply hold Taron’s hand in silence, the whole way down.

“You’re a dickhead,” he blurted, when the elevator doors slid open.

“I know. And you’re a fucking _playboy_.”

“I’m sorry, T. Don’t even know what happened back there.”

“Oh, shut it, Madden. Or I’ll get mad again.”

“Please don’t.”

“Take me dancing, then.”

“But—Jamie? Dinner?” Richard was confused.

“Yeah, about that. Jamie spent a whole five minutes telling me how he’s going to strangle you if you fuck this one up,” Taron said simply, lifting his shoulders.

Oh, gosh. Jamie was such a fucking gem.

“There’s no dinner, Dicky. Just us.”

Richard blushed furiously, finally realising what the act had all been for.

_Oh, you really want this, then, huh?_

“Please, let’s go dancing.”, Taron asked again.

 “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

“T?”

“Yes, Rich?”

“Is this a date?”

Richard was so _cute_ sometimes.

“Yes. Yes, Rich. It’s a date. A weird one, indeed. But, _by God_ , it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, then. I hope you enjoyed this. I needed to get it out of my system real bad.  
> Thank you so much for sticking with me.  
> I love reading all your comments, they make me so happy!  
> Also, btw. I'm aware Jamie wasn't in Cannes for the premiere. He's just a cutie and a really great plot device, so I hope that it won't bother you too much.  
> Lots of love xxx


	4. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I guess it would be nice  
> If I could touch your body  
> I know not everybody  
> Has got a body like you

After a quick Google search and another short Uber ride, Taron and Richard found themselves at the door of the Raspoutine club, which was, again, only a few blocks away from the Palais des Festivals. Cannes was a small place, and the building was an impending reminder of what was about to happen, less than 24 hours later.

So Taron had thought it appropriate they go to a karaoke bar. He would get a few more drinks in him, blast out some tunes, dance his heart out, let Richard flirt with him, anything to fight the anxiety which came knocking every ten minutes, as soon as he lost focus on Richard and started thinking of the premiere.

Richard. Bright-eyed, heart-stopping, _ravishing_ Richard.

Taron had quickly realised that admitting to himself, out loud, that _yes, of course they were on a bloody date_ , had been the equivalent of injecting a hefty dose of confidence directly into his veins. After witnessing Richard’s reaction to his outburst of jealousy—overplayed, exaggerated, sure, but jealousy all the same, Taron finally had no doubt on where the night was going to lead them.

 _And it’s going to be a wild ride_.

And, as much as he would have liked to instruct the Uber driver to immediately take them back to the Carlton, he’d found it in himself to continue the flirty game he’d started in the glass elevator, because Richard definitely deserved to be teased for leaving him hanging, back there, on the terrace.

_The night is young, until it’s over_

_The night is ours, until tomorrow_

Taron made sure to remember that when Richard’s hand delicately landed on the small of his back, leading him gently towards the pulsating heart of the Raspoutine.

 

As soon as they were immersed in the dim light of the club’s entrance—which somehow seemed to be right, safe, warm as Taron’s skin which was now beneath his right hand, Richard immediately felt lighter. He struggled to comprehend what on earth had gone through his dim-witted fucking head, exactly, when he’d let those girls intrude on his night—his _date_ , he now knew, with Taron.

He silently thanked his lucky stars that Taron had been too hard-headed, possessive— _jealous?_ to let him go without a fight, even if he had almost given him a heart attack during said fight. Which, by the way, he’d absolutely one hundred percent deserved.

Speaking of deserving, Richard was also well aware that, one way or another, he’d most likely have to face the infamous Wrath of Jamie, of which he’d had an indirect taste through Taron’s words in the elevator only a few minutes earlier, and he honestly was _not_ looking forward to it.

So, he thought it best to give himself a mental ice bath to cool his spirits down and approach this night as best as he could without succumbing to coyness, self-doubt, or any other kind of weird feeling or behaviour which could hold him back.

When he got his wallet out to pay for their admission to the club— _No, T, get that thing away right this instant, I’m getting this_ , Richard found himself wondering whether maybe Jamie could possibly cut him some slack if Taron showed up at the premiere the next day looking thoroughly well-shagged.

_Jesus. If only._

 

Taron took Richard’s hand. To make a point. To reassure him that everything was okay. To show the world—every single person in the room, more like, that Richard definitely wasn’t up for grabs that night.

_Over my fucking dead body._

Richard squeezed Taron’s smaller hand in an impossibly erotic way. The way highborn maidens and farm boys from period dramas communicate their darkest, deepest desires to one another. Taron’s mind drifted once again, this time to one of the most sensual and heart-breaking pieces of television he’d ever had the pleasure to watch. The way Eddie Redmayne and Clémence Poésy courted each other. The lustful, forbidden looks they exchanged. The immensely charged sexual tension, which found its resolution in one of the best sex scenes ever filmed—second only to his and Richard’s, he found himself hoping. The fact that Richard himself was actually in it, albeit briefly. Taron made a mental note to rewatch _Birdsong_ as soon as he could get his hands on a computer.

“Shall we sing something, Madden?” Taron heard himself shouting over the chaotic chatter around them, to try and drown his own confusing thoughts.

His eyes were transfixed in Richard’s blue orbs, thoroughly enjoying the way Richard’s worries seemed to have been cleanly swept away by the simple, intimate, weirdly familiar gesture of holding hands. Richard was now caressing Taron’s knuckles with his thumb. And Taron thought he might melt into a puddle of want.

 

“Sure, _darling_ ,” Richard yelled back, emphasising the endearing term. Not ironically, for once, but fully meaning it.

That was the moment when an impossible urge overcame Richard—unexpected, unannounced, compelling. He found that refraining himself from pulling Taron in for a deep kiss right there and then, in front of everybody, hurt him in parts of his body he wasn’t even sure could be affected by lovesickness and boiling lust.

 _Patience, Richard. Patience_.

Instead, he decided to dig his fingernails into his left thigh and scan the crowded room to intercept the person in charge of the karaoke station. When his eyes found her—petite thing, pink hair, cat-eye liner, highlighter so bright he could swear he’d been blinded for a split second, he did the rude thing and pointed her out to Taron.

The room was loud, chaotic, buzzing with people. Shouting over it was ineffective, obnoxious, and frankly not fit for a date. Which is why Richard freed his right hand from Taron’s firm grip and moved it up Taron’s arm—softly, slowly, and ever so delicately, to finally let it rest on the soft skin of the nape of his neck. Richard’s face then inched close, _impossibly close_ to Taron’s ear, and he whispered into it.

“Go get us signed up, I’ll take care of drinks.”

Another lingering stroke on Taron’s neck, a wink, and he was gone. The amount of electricity he’d managed to fashion out of a few small gestures and even fewer, not very erotically charged words, was remarkable to say the least.

His back now turned to Taron, Richard grinned, mentally patted himself on the back, and strutted on in the direction of the bar.

 

Taron’s immediate feeling was of somehow having been discorporated and forced to watch the whole scene from an outside perspective. Which was, for the record, an extremely pleasant sight.

 _Oh, those two are going to fuck, alright_.

Except that wasn’t even true, because it had all felt very real, very up close, and _very_ personal. Richard’s slightly rough fingers on his arm, then on his shoulder, then on his neck, holding him in place. Those luscious lips approaching him for the second time that night. That somewhat commanding tone his voice adjusted to when he was aroused.

It had all lasted a few, blissful seconds, and then the warmth was gone as quickly as it had arrived. And it was honestly a good job it had, frankly, because if Richard had spent a few more seconds holding him like that, well, Taron thought he probably would have caught fire.

Taron checked that Richard’s back was turned and shook himself off, his hands running through his hair, his fingers pinching the centre of his shirt and quickly moving the fabric off and on his skin, to create some air.

Hot. It was _hot_.

He then scooped himself up off the spot on the floor Richard had left him on, reminding himself that his mission for the night was supposed to be to _actively_ tease Richard to death, and not _passively_ be reduced to a whining mess by Richard’s expert seduction techniques.

_Get a grip, Taron, goddamnit._

Taron reached the karaoke station and asked for the estimated waiting time, which turned out to be only five minutes. Not many people were interested in singing their hearts out to cheesy pop songs on a Wednesday night in Cannes, apparently, which suited him fine, because he sure as all hell was.

When he glanced across the room to try and spot Richard in the sea of chattering people, he saw him walking towards him, proudly clutching two tall glasses. Taron’s heart did a weird jump in his chest then, which was not an unusual reaction when it came to Richard doing literally anything around him those days, but this time it was actually justified.

Because Richard had remembered.

Taron’s mind was quick to recall a lazy Sunday afternoon spent together a couple months back, when one or two or four spliffs were lit, high quality banter was had, and weird revelations were made. One of those, on Taron’s part, had been that he _loved_ karaoke. And that, without exception, his drink of choice when he was preparing to put on a show was always…

“Strawberry mojitos”, Richard announced, out loud, the biggest smile on his face, after having slithered between two chattering girls.

Taron really, really struggled not to fall down at his feet after that. And, judging by the way he was looking at him, Richard was perfectly aware of that.

_Madden, you might need to stop it right here, or I’ll have no choice but to marry you._

 

The shiny, stainless steel, _rose gold_ straws the charming waiter had put in their drinks had Richard feeling extremely at peace with the bar’s awareness of the consequences of overconsumption of plastic, but also, and most of all, tremendously fabulous.

Not half as fabulous, however, as the young man in front of him, who was holding his cocktail glass firmly in one hand and a microphone in the other, getting in the zone, and generally looking as if he’d been born for the stage. Richard was hit by another surge of love, admiration and the general star-struck haze he sometimes fell in when around Taron, and his head automatically went to the familiar pet name he’d found for him, the only way he could bring himself to call Taron to do him any kind of justice.

 _Golden Boy_.

The drunk girls whom had been shrieking away on stage, attempting and failing to stay in tune and deliver Céline Dion’s version of _Ne me quitte pas_ , finally wobbled off, leaving the spot free for Taron to deliver everyone with the best cover that would grace their ears, _ever_.

Richard knew it would be _Faith_ , because karaoke with Taron always meant there would be _Faith_. Bowie, Elton, some Beatles, maybe, those were going to come later. But now it was time for George Michael’s sexy lyrics and Taron’s swinging hips. The context—the _date_ —did not make that particular realisation easy to swallow.

Right before climbing onstage, Taron turned to face Richard and held out his hand, expectantly. He did not formulate the question out loud, but Richard knew that was the universal sign for _c’mon_.

He suddenly felt himself blushing.

“Oh, no, T, I couldn’t possibly. No autotune on the karaoke machine, is there?” Richard attempted, with a half-smile.

Taron was clearly not having any of that, because he proceeded to loudly tsk, roll his eyes and, firmly, gesture to the stage with his head.

“Madden. Stage. Right now. You owe me one.”

Richard groaned, stage fright starting to get at his guts.

“I got you the mojito, haven’t I?” he attempted, again.

“Get your arse on there with me right the fuck now, Dickie,” Taron said, inflexibly, through gritted teeth, the silence onstage now starting to become deafening, the DJ looking inquisitively at the pair of them, probably wondering whether he should just put some music back on while they were deciding on what to do.

Richard knew he could never keep his thoughts straight or his resolutions firm when it came to Taron. So he bent.

“Fine. One song. And you start.”

Richard grabbed a mic.

Taron smiled, victorious.

 

_Well, I guess it would be nice_

_If I could touch your body_

_I know not everybody_

_Has got a body like you, ooh_

Richard now by his side, Taron intoned the familiar lyrics with a newly found confidence. Flashes of their little performance in James Corden’s Rover back in December still occasionally crossed his mind at least once a week, and they never failed to pick him up when he was down. But _this_ , oh, this was different. No banter. No Jack the Ripper jokes. No subtle flirtation. This was to be a full-on serenade, and Taron needed it to be as sexy and convincing as he could make it.

_But I gotta think twice_

_Before I give my heart away_

_And I know all the games you play_

_Because I play them too_

George’s words were sung directly at Richard, Taron’s gaze decisively holding his while performing. Taron’s hips were swinging to the music, and, as he was doing that, he almost imperceptibly, but surely, shuffled closer to Richard.

Richard was no doubt uncomfortable with the fact of being onstage, but had that unmistakable _hungry_ look in his eyes, heightened by the torturous physical proximity and the thick tension, palpable in the air between them.

Taron knew the little game they were playing was going exactly as planned when Richard grabbed his hips and closed the distance between them. There was nothing innocent or ambiguous in the way he did that, which, coupled with the look on his face, threatened to send Taron’s self-control out the window.

When the bridge rolled in, Richard did too. His voice was clear, polished, beautiful, and, by God, _is he harmonising?_ After the split second it took him to realise what was happening, Taron found himself wondering whether Richard had been taking lessons and, if yes, why on _earth_ he’d been so fussy about coming onstage with him in the first place.

Be it as it may, Taron had his many times performing the song in the past to thank for not losing his shit when they both hit the chorus and Richard decided to spin him around, so that Taron’s arse came into contact with his thighs and, well, his groin. Because, at that point, Richard started to ever so discreetly _grind_ on him.

 

_Baby_

_I know you’re asking me to stay_

_Say please, please, please, don’t go away_

_You say I’m giving you the blues_

Richard took the lead on the second verse, his right hand firm on the mic, his left slightly pulling at Taron’s shirt where it was tucked into his trousers. The friction between their bodies was not nearly enough to satisfy the sweltering need he had for Taron in that moment, but it’d have to do. They were still, after all, in public. And, always for the sake of their dicks staying attached to their bodies—the thought of Paramount and Dexter looming over them was ever present—they could not afford to make it _too_ sexy.

But _a bit_ sexy was okay, wasn’t it?

Except Richard quickly found he had grossly underestimated the power of Taron’s arse, which was now swinging against him, and by the time he felt himself growing hard beneath it, well, it was too late.

_Maybe_

_You mean every word you say_

_Can’t help but think of yesterday_

_And another who tied me down to loverboy rules_

Richard’s discomfort was quickly overwhelmed by thinking of how _good_ it felt to finally be so unapologetically disinhibited around Taron. They were dancing on each other, swinging their hips, bobbing their heads to the music, and all in all having quite a fucking grand time.

Just when Richard thought the light friction and the swinging hips and the thighs and the bum could cause him to shoot up like a rocket, Taron quickly spun round on his heels and turned back to face him.

_Oh, thank Christ._

Taron had a look on his face that spelled _I felt that, you know_ in capital letters on his forehead, and Richard found the time to blush furiously and yet shoot him a glance that retorted _I hope you would_.

They went into the second bridge together, harmonising perfectly. Richard got lost looking at Taron move and he couldn’t help but feeling like they were trapped into their amazing little bubble and that the world had disappeared. It was just him, Taron, and, well, that _thing_ that hung in the air between them every time they looked at each other.

Turned out fighting stage fright was easier than he’d expected. He didn’t need to imagine the audience naked or not being there at all, he just needed Taron by his side and a killer ass tune. Everything was right in the world. Except maybe for the fact that he had a raging hard-on and they still were in a very public place.

 

The song came to an end way too quickly, and yet simultaneously felt like it had lasted three lifetimes.

The rollercoaster of emotions—giddy happiness, madness, surprise, burning desire, love, _hunger_ for each other, had left Taron drained in the most beautiful way possible.

Taron was normally quick with a joke, always jumping on the banter train after anybody else, and yet this, right now, was again so different.

The feeling of Richard’s body against his, behind him, enveloping his body. Letting his hand explore his fully clothed body in a way that could be considered just slightly R-rated but _definitely_ not PG. The burning realisation that Richard was painfully hard, and that he, Taron, was to blame for it.

All these elements, jumbled up together, rendered him momentarily speechless and incapable of any coherent thought, except the litany that was going on in his head, everlasting and relentless.

_Richard, Richard, Richard._

“Taron?”

Richard woke him up from his semi-catatonic state by gently shaking his shoulder. The look on his face was one Taron had seen there before, except never in real life.

They were John and Elton at Abbey Road Studios back then, kissing desperately in a closet and fantasising of a lavish life together. Reid was hungry, but never really for Elton, it had turned out. Only for his money. Richard had played the part so well, it was frankly quite scary at times.

But now. Now they were just two normal people on a stage, enjoying the aftermath of singing a golden classic, and the hungry look was not from John to Elton, it was from Richard to Taron. And _holy Moses_ , was it beautiful.

 

Richard scrutinised Taron for a few brief moments, as if to assess he was okay, because he did look slightly unwell. When he judged that he was, in fact, quite alright, and he was probably just lost in his own head, Richard decided to take the matter into his own hands.

No more holding back, no more inhibition, no more _bullshit_.

_Thank you, Jamie, for that one._

Richard grabbed Taron’s hand—completely disregarding the fact that their little performance had been quite appreciated by the French crowd in the club and that some of them were actually standing up and applauding them—and started dragging Taron towards the men’s bathroom.

His brain, now so clouded with love and lust for Taron that everything else around seemed blurry and poorly drawn, had given little thought to the fact that shagging in a toilet was on top of the list of trashy things he’d told himself he would never ever do in his life, _ever_. And yet. There was a first time for everything, it seemed.

Taron’s grip on his hand was strong and determined, as if to say that _yes_ , that was what he wanted too and that _no_ , he didn’t care it was a cliché, because they had both wanted this for such a long time, it seemed illogical to delay it for even a single second.

When Richard flung the bathroom door open, then he entered a cubicle, and then shove Taron against its door, his knees almost turned to jelly at the sight before his eyes.

Taron was flustered, his breath was ragged from all the singing and jumping up and down, and a single bead of sweat was slowly rolling down his forehead. His shirt was all over the place, wrinkled, two more buttons had been undone, and it was hanging out from his trousers where Richard had been pulling on it during their steamy spell onstage. His eyes were dark with desire, and his mouth looked so extremely fucking kissable.

So Richard couldn’t help but oblige.

 

From the moment Richard had grabbed his hand onstage to the moment Taron had found himself backed against the cubicle door, Richard’s luscious lips crashing on his own, several seconds had most certainly passed. And yet, Taron felt like he had momentarily blacked out, although he wasn’t completely sure why.

Richard was all over every single inch of him, his hands exploring his body, trying to take in everything he could, as if he couldn’t believe his luck they were finally, _finally_ doing this, and thought Taron would change his mind any minute now and tell him to stop.

Except Taron most definitely did _not_ want him to stop.

He couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief as soon as Richard’s lips made contact with his, ferocious and ravenous yet tentative and caring at first. He heard Richard hum with contentment as soon as Taron opened his mouth to allow Richard’s tongue to slip in it, telling him that it was indeed okay to deepen the kiss, letting him know that was exactly what he’d been yearning for since he’d first lain eyes on Richard.

When they had kissed on set, it had never been like this. It was always choreographed, somewhat overworked, and generally carried out in a sterile atmosphere with everyone’s eyes on them. Granted, they both had done their best to make the love scene as convincing as it could be, and Taron knew they both were extremely satisfied with how that had turned out, but they also agreed on the fact that no scene caught on camera, no matter how well-played it was, could ever do that kind of feeling justice.

The love and lust he’d been bottling up for that whole time must really have been poisoning him from the inside, Taron thought, because as soon as Richard started kissing his jaw, then his neck, he felt like he was drifting away. The sensation was new and weird and _scary_ , for just a second, before his brain shut down completely, once again.

After what felt like an eternity, and yet for some reason Taron wanted to bet it had been just a few seconds, he was faced with Richard’s furrowed brow, his face sporting an extremely concerned look.

 

“Taron, are you alright?”

Richard had started feeling that something might be wrong merely sixty-odd seconds into their makeout session. Everything seemed to go as it should, their bodies were grinding, their tongues were wrestling for dominance, moans escaped from their lips, their need for each other was burning hot and they were breathing loudly in each other’s mouths.

Until Taron had seemed to all of a sudden go limp in Richard’s arms. His hands had released their pressure on the small of Richard’s back, where they had been struggling to get Richard’s shirt out of his trousers. The kiss had become lazy, the tension had softened, the moaning had stopped.

Richard’s brain had quickly signalled to his body that it was best to stop, since Taron did not seem to be as into kissing him as he’d lead him to believe. So Richard stopped, immediately, and tried to take a step back, before finding himself having to support Taron’s full body in his arms, because the boy had completely lost his balance.

Alright, then, so _that_ was most definitely not what a simple change of heart looked like.

It usually went like _yeah, no, I’m sorry, I’d better go_ , or like _I think I’ve had too much, sorry, didn’t mean to do that_ , but never had anyone tried to escape a shag they’d decided they didn’t much care for by fucking collapsing in his arms.

Richard was flooded with panic, at that point, because Taron hadn’t even looked that drunk. Christ, they’d been having the same amount of alcohol the whole night, they had been drinking the same bloody things—Prosecco from a bottle, the mojitos which were mixed in front of Richard’s eyes. They hadn’t even left each other’s side all evening, except for when Taron had taken Jamie’s call back on the rooftop terrace, and a second time when Richard had gone to get them drinks from the bar.

Drinks.

From the bar.

Richard’s mind made the connection impressively quickly.

_Oh, God. He’s been drugged._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...right.  
> So this fic is consuming my life. Oh, is it that obvious?  
> Ah, well.  
> I love you all so much for reading and commenting, you literally fill my heart with joy every single fucking time.  
> xxx


	5. Heal Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh this is love like wildness_   
>  _Coursing through you like a drug_   
>  _And this is hurt like kindness_   
>  _Breakin' you with gentle hands_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Hello again. Has it been a month already? Did I really leave you on that cliffhanger for _that_ long? I must admit I kind of get how Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss must have felt at the end of the second season of Sherlock. Except they can actually write, but let’s just disregard this detail and move forward, shall we?
> 
> First of all, I’m quite surprised at how long this whole thing you’re about to read turned out. I never intended to drag this as much as I have, but some parts practically just wrote themselves, and I’m kind of scared the introspection¬ will be too much and too heavy but heck, it is what it is, and I hope you’ll indulge me and enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> Secondly, this is officially the first chapter of this shitstorm of a story that has officially been betaed, and boy oh boy, by none other than [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose). I honestly can’t even tell you how much fangirling I’ve done and (I’m still doing) over this. They're amazing, a genius writer, and an actual gem of a human being, and their help on this has been the most precious gift a girl could ask for.
> 
> Thirdly, I’d like to credit the inspiration for the title to this Madderton [ playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3snQHkJMmgPJQ9zlLZko96) some absolute saint made on Spotify. I’ve had it on repeat for the past week when putting the finishing touches on this bloody chapter, and it has quite literally held my hand through it all.
> 
> Finally, the rating has just officially been updated to E. Do with that what you will, and do tread carefully.

Richard wasn’t sure how, when, or why. He wasn’t sure about _anything_ anymore, really—just, maybe, that he was completely and utterly panicking. He spun around in the cubicle a few times, hands in his hair, incapable of comprehending what on earth he or Taron had ever done to the world to deserve something like that happening to them. When his head was finally spinning from the physical movement—the nausea was there already, anyways, he closed his eyes, and was surprised at the newfound clarity in his mind. Walking backwards through the situation, playing detective—that might help a bit. So that’s what he did.

He thought the barman had looked nice enough, all smiles and chit-chat, _bonsoir, monsieur_ , _oui, tout de suite, monsieur_ , and all that shite that makes for a right decent customer service experience. Richard had had his credit card to pay for the mojitos out in no time.

 _When_ could that even have happened, then? And _why_ had only one out of two drinks been spiked? Why did it have to be _Taron’s_? Was that someone’s idea of a twisted joke, sheer bad luck, or something even worse?

And then, all of a sudden, he remembered. There had been a man, on the side of the bar. The interaction had been so fleeting, Richard had forgotten all about it the second it had been over—his mind was, justifiably, elsewhere. He’d had, however, the time to appreciate how stereotypically hunky the bloke had been. Well-built, handsome face, strong jaw, his body hugged by a white T-shirt and skinny jeans. He looked younger than Richard by at least five or six years. And he’d been giving him the eye, big time.

He’d inched closer to him on the bar and had said hello, even suggested buying him a drink. Richard had been flattered by the attention—it was rarer for men to approach him than women, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit he really did prefer men’s company to women’s, these days. On the other hand, there was no way he would be repeating his fresh yet already infamous fuck-up at the rooftop bar earlier that evening and let another person intrude into his quality time with Taron. So he decided to turn him down, in broken French, best he could.

_Je—je suis ici avec quelqu’un, désolé._

The man had pulled a disappointed face and shrugged, before murmuring _dommage_ , winking at him, and shifting back to the corner of the bar where he’d come from.

The only plausible explanation Richard found for what was happening to Taron—who was now sitting, head between his knees, on the floor of the cubicle where they both still were, sweating profusely—was that the _predatory sack of shit_ at the bar must definitely have tried his luck at getting _Richard_ into bed by using a date rape drug of some sort. He’d probably slipped it into one of the two glasses in the brief timespan it had took Richard to check his phone to see whether Elton or Jamie had texted him. He remembered doing exactly that right after dismissing the man—and the glasses would already have been in front of Richard, ready for collection, by that time.

 _Elton_. What was he going to say to Elton?

The thought of the big guy sent a stream of guilt flooding down Richard’s bloodstream, hot as lava and cold as a mountain waterfall. Elton had literally given him one job, for the night: take care of Taron. Trust Richard—or his bad luck, more realistically, but that never seemed to come up when he was busy self-deprecating and blaming himself for stuff—to get distracted from his mission for literally ten seconds, and those ten seconds being the most crucial ones.

_Fucking idiot._

The side of his fist was quick to hit the cubicle wall, and it hurt much more than he’d imagined.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, out loud this time, because he was starting to feel trapped in his own head.

He groaned in frustration, pain shooting through his hand from his momentary outburst, and ran both his hands through his hair, trying to cool down, since he really should be concentrating on fussing over Taron, right now.

\---

Richard was all over him in no time. His strong hands grabbing Taron’s head, checking his pupils, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Terror pooling in his impossible blue eyes.

“T, _babe_ , oh my God, I’m so sorry, shit, I’m a such a fucking moron,” Richard was saying, miles away, through the several layers of cotton in Taron’s ears. Which were also ringing like they never had before—not even that time he’d spent three solid hours approximately five feet away from a speaker at a Metallica concert.

_Babe?_

“Mmmh, _babe…babe…_ ” Taron got a bit stuck on the word and couldn't quite work out how to say anything else. “T, I’m—I think there was something in yer drink. I think you’ve been roofied.”

From the slits of his half-open eyes, Taron could see that Richard was being dead bleeding serious. He couldn’t really appreciate what it meant, though, since his head was filled with lead, too heavy to stand up on its own, so he dropped it between his knees again.

He heard Richard groan, loudly, and then fall to his knees, too—on the bathroom floor, _somewhere_. Probably close to him. Taron wasn’t sure. He could not really quantify shit like distances in that moment.

“Did… not… need… that … Dickie…”, he whispered, his heart beating right into his temples. His skull felt like an impossibly large hand was crushing it to breaking point. “ _Wasgoingto_ … come home with you… anyway… y’know…”. Every word he got out felt like running a marathon.

Just before he felt like he would definitely collapse on the filthy floor, he felt his hair being tugged at, gently but firmly, and his head shot up automatically. _Bad fucking idea_. It hurt like a motherfucker. Like all the times he’d eaten ice cream way too fast and got brain freeze, only times _one gazillion_.

“Taron, _what the fuck_.” Richard’s hand was still in his hair, caressing it, slightly manically. “It wasn’t me, of course I didn’t do it, why would I do _that_ , who do you take me f—”

“Rich… joking…” Taron butted in, a half-smile painted on his lips, his expression a picture of dizziness and discomfort.

\---

 _Really_.

Richard couldn’t believe the man’s _nerve_. Talking shite in a moment like this.

Too shaken to get any words out, too panicked to wait another second more, Richard reached his hands out to grab Taron under his armpits, bent his knees, and put his whole weight into trying to get him up. Taron was impossibly heavy, on the account of being a solid wall of muscle at the best of times and, in that moment, fairly useless at holding himself up. It took three tries to finally get Taron on his feet and press him against the cubicle door once again, so that he could rest his weight on it and wouldn’t collapse.

“There, T, there you go, stand up for me,” Richard panted, running the back of his hand against Taron’s cheek, his other hand resting on the door beside Taron’s head. He was staring hard into Taron’s sweat-drenched face, taking in the gravity of the situation.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“We need to get ye to a hospital, love,” he announced, matter-of-factly, calmly, like it was no big deal Taron was in need of medical attention on the night before the most important day of his life.

Taking control of the situation—that was Richard’s way of coping with the enormity of what was happening. He would probably even have been believable, if his voice hadn’t cracked a little upon muttering the word “hospital”.

At that, Taron’s eyes suddenly darted open, like he’d emerged from a rabbit hole and finally could see the light of day after weeks in the dark. He was coming from very far away, indeed. Taron then grabbed Richard by the front of his shirt, with both hands, his grip surprisingly strong, considering he could barely stand up on his own.

“ _Richard_. No. Hospitals. Premiere. Tomorrow,” he articulated, angrily, panicked, breathing hard.

 _Fuck, he’s right_.

Richard could see it all play out in his head. Calling an ambulance, people at the bar taking pictures of the guy being lifted into it and the other bloke apprehensively climbing in right after. Instagram stories being posted, people from the hospital blabbing about Taron Egerton being admitted in late at night and Richard Madden being by his side, all the press already in Cannes, the photocall in the morning— _oh, God, the photocall in the morning_.

He’d almost forgotten about that. It was scheduled for 10AM. Which was, well, relatively soon. This awareness, however, did not prevent a wave of relief from surging through Richard when he looked at his shiny new Ulysse Nardin and he read 9:15 PM.

_Right, there’s time._

“Alright, alright, no hospitals, promise, I’m going to take care of you, yeah? Maybe call Dexter and Jamie, just in case?”, Richard offered, his thumb mindlessly running over Taron’s chin, his heart breaking a little, furiously reproaching himself.

\---

“J—Just you, Rich. Don’t want… anyone else… to know,” Taron whispered, his face very close to Richard’s now, fairly flirtatious still, because he couldn’t really help it. “I need _you_.”

At this, Taron watched Richard gulp, run a hand through his hair, again, probably lost in thought, probably wondering what to do.

“I’m here, babe. Let’s get back to the hotel, eh?”

Taron nodded, softly, and closed his eyes for a moment. Weird images and colours were waiting for him behind his shut eyelids. Christ, his head hurt like a _motherfucker_.

Leaning on Richard, he managed to make his way outside the club, where an Uber was already waiting for them—Taron realised he must have briefly blacked out once again, because he had absolutely no memory of Richard even having his phone out to order it.

When they got into the car, Richard nervously reassured the driver, _mon ami est—drunk, he’s drunk_ , at which point Taron wanted to put his hand over Richard’s mouth to stop him talking about his pitiful state, the driver absolutely did not need to know nor did he care, but he could not find the strength to actually do so. Plus, in a brief moment of clarity, Taron’s brain reminded him that if either one of them was going to be recognised in the streets of Cannes, it was most certainly going to be Richard and not him, seeing how many people were still shouting “the King in the North!” when he walked past. So, he should be fine, really.

_At least until tomorrow night._

Taron proceeded to doze off in the back seat of the black Mercedes. One second later, he woke up, and it kind of freaked him out to notice he was lying on a bed. _His_ bed, in fact, at the Carlton. He looked around him and panic immediately struck him when he turned his head right and left—which fucking hurt, by the way, and realised Richard was nowhere to be seen.

He started breathing hard, then, his heart pumping approximately a thousand litres of blood per second, all going to his brain and firing up the crippling headache and existential dread that the drug had injected into his circulation. Quickly overheated, he felt sweat drip down his forehead, down the side of his nose, and reach his mouth—salty, bitter, dirty.

 _Where the_ hell _are you?_

“Rich? Y-you there?” he said, not realising how small his voice sounded.

Richard emerged from the bathroom seconds later, holding an old-fashioned basin, like in Victorian dramas, a few crisp white towels, and a blister of pills. He had one AirPod jammed in his right ear, and he was chattering away, his brogue thicker than usual, barely understandable at times. But Richard was _there_ , alright. Looking down at him with those big, worried eyes, and taking care of him. Taron sighed in relief, right before his head lost its ongoing battle with gravity and slammed back down on the pillow.

\---

“Alright, pal, ta so _so_ much for this, I owe ye a _humongous_ favour. Take care, Ewan. Cheers.”

Richard rested the basin on Taron’s bedside table and took his AirPod off. He took a few brief seconds to thank everything that was sacred that his best friend from college had gone to medical school and was now officially a doctor, with actual skills and knowledge on what to do when situations like this occurred, and completely fucking wrecked somebody’s idea of a nice, fun, and hopefully sex-fuelled evening.

Except maybe for the fact that, predictably, Ewan’s first piece of advice had been to stop being an inconsiderate dweeb and drag Taron to a hospital, _right the fuck now_ , which really would have been the best thing to do in any other moment of their life. Richard understood Taron’s perspective, however—how bad it would have looked if he had been admitted into the ER late at night, and drug tested, too, and all this right before they went on to premiere possibly the biggest piece of mainstream entertainment of the rest of their bloody life.

So, it was going to have to be the pair of them, a hotel room, painkillers, and loads of rest. Richard was not going to leave his side the whole damn night, and he was completely fine with that idea. Not like he’d planned to spend the evening in his own bed, anyways.

_So help me God, I’m going to have you on your feet by tomorrow morning._

Richard approached Taron and drank in the sight of him, lying on the bed, still fully clothed, drenched in his own sweat. He knew he needed to cool him down. He had previously reasoned that Taron would be too weak to stand up to get into the shower, and that a cold bath was simply too damn hard to get into—heck, Richard himself personally refused to get into one even after spending fifteen-odd minutes in a 90°C sauna. The towels had seemed a good compromise—despite finding that basin in the bathroom having felt like a domestic scene straight out of a Jane Austen novel. He still needed to get Taron’s clothes off, though, didn’t he?

“Babe, I’m here, you’re alright, I’m here,” Richard cooed, his hand coming to caress Taron’s right cheek from where he was sat, on the side of the bed. “Going to take care of you noo, yeah? Need to take these off, though, if you’ll let me?”

Taron shifted from where he was lying, face up, and turned slightly to face Richard. He smiled, softly, and nodded, almost unable to keep his eyes open. Richard was half expecting, maybe more like hoping, for a cheeky retort. When it didn’t come, his heart broke a little more.

As he started unbuttoning Taron’s pale lavender shirt, which was now clinging onto his arms and chest way more than it had been earlier, Richard couldn’t help but feel his brain was sending persistent warning signals to his hands— _stop, this is so wrong, it wasn’t supposed to be like this_. And, indeed, this was absolutely not how he’d imagined it would be like to finally strip Taron down to his boxers.

He’d anticipated getting the chance to rip all of Taron’s clothes off in a manic, lust-driven frenzy, kissing and biting him furiously, possibly while pinning him against a wall. Or maybe delicately peel them from his lovely, sun-kissed body at an excruciatingly slow pace, savouring every inch of his perfect skin finally being exposed for him to adore. Peppering kisses all over his chest, his belly, his hips, and those flawless, striking thighs that Taron seemed to be so self-conscious about. Revelling in each and every small sound escaping Taron’s lips every time he would touch him somewhere particularly sensitive.

Instead, stripping Taron down was proving a difficult and not particularly pleasant task, what with his clothes sticking to almost every part of his soaked body. When Richard managed to finally get them off, he got lost for a second too much in admiring the curve of his muscular shoulders, the way his hipbones jutted against the waistband of his snow-white boxers, and the object of his wildest wet dreams peeking out from the other side of them—those bloody thighs he wanted to kiss and bite and just _worship_ for the rest of his life.

_Only flesh and blood, after all, aren’t I?_

\---

The towel was wet, soft and fucking _cold_ against Taron’s skin. He’d barely processed the whole thing that had been Richard taking his clothes off, too busy watching a weird film in his head. Richard had been delicate, firm, almost surgically methodical in removing his shirt and trousers, and Taron was so very grateful for being finally exposed to the sea breeze coming in from the wide-open balcony door, he actually felt more awake all of a sudden.

He tentatively opened his eyes to find Richard’s beautiful face looming over him, impossibly close, his hand hard at work at dabbing the cold wet fabric at his forehead. A surge of undying love suddenly struck Taron so powerfully, he felt the wind being knocked out of him.

_Breath-taking, Richard. Just goddamn breath-taking._

“T—Thanks, Dickie,” Taron murmured, finding he could talk a little more easily now he was comfortable and feeling less like he’d been thrown to roast in a scorching hot oven.

Some water from the soaked towelette ended up in his mouth, and he welcomed the cold liquid hitting his lips more than he thought he would. He hadn’t realised he’d been absolutely gasping for a sip of water. Before he could say or do anything, Richard was folding the towelette up three times and putting it on his forehead, while grabbing a big glass of water from the bedside table.

Taron didn’t think it would be possible to want to kiss Richard more than he did right then. And that’s exactly when the man topped himself once again and proceeded to gently support Taron by the nape of his neck, holding his head up, while he brought the glass to his lips and tipped it, the icy water from the minibar tasting impossibly sweet on his tongue and partially washing away the unpleasant bitter taste in his mouth.

\---

He heard Taron breathing hard while gulping down the water, only stopping when the glass was half empty. Richard got the message and tipped it back down, resting it back on the bedside table during the time it took him to pop two paracetamol tablets out of the blister.

“Could you open yer mouth for some painkillers, d’ye think?” Richard uttered, at which Taron automatically parted his lips, allowing Richard to slip the pills in. How that gesture had felt _that_ erotic, Richard wasn’t completely sure.

As soon as Taron gulped the pills down with the rest of the water, Richard went back to just looking down at him from where he was sitting, on the side of the bed, looking worried, anxious, mortified, but a little more at peace with himself, because he was trying so very hard to do something about it.

Richard then returned to his previous labour of running wet towels on Taron to try and cool him down. He felt like a damn fool and hated himself every time his gaze lingered on any given part of Taron’s body just a little more than would be considered appropriate. He was trying to avoid looking too hard—not the right moment, not the right time, _absolutely_ not the right state of mind—but it was impossible, really. The physical contact was constant and complete and _atrocious_. Had Richard practically on his knees, begging for sweet death to come and take him. All he wanted was just to be able to kiss every inch of that body.

_Soon._

Richard took his time towelling his body, and, by the time he was done, Taron was looking completely relaxed once again, just lying on his back, his eyes closed, a serene expression painted on his face. The sight sent a wave of relief flowing down Richard’s spine, which, if only partially, managed to get rid of his persistent dread and the familiar guilty feeling that was slowly but surely eating away at his insides.

Richard resolved he’d let Taron nod off. Thought it best not to fuss over him anymore than necessary—he needed _lots and lots of sleep_ , doctor’s orders. And, the sooner he started, the better, really, considering it was already past midnight. Richard looked at his watch in disbelief—he had not realised how long they’d spent on that bed, how long he’d been looking after Taron while the lad had been busy sweating that dreadful drug off.

He decided it was reasonable to go fetch cigarettes and his Bluetooth speaker from his own room, and settle on the settee in Taron’s balcony, split between wanting to keep his eyes peeled on Taron, monitoring his every tiny little wriggle and stir on the bed, and turning to face the sea, which was a striking spectacle that night—waves roaring from the rushing wind that he hadn’t even realised had risen since they last were outside.

Richard sighed as he flicked his engraved lighter—a sturdy, heavy silver Zippo, present from his Dad for his thirtieth birthday, it said _To my Young Wolf_ on the back, and it was cheesy, and Richard loved it possibly a little too much. When the flame touched the tip of the Marlboro Red he was holding between his lips, and smoke finally, _finally_ filled his lungs, and he gulped it in eagerly, he felt abruptly aware of the fact that he hadn’t drawn a proper breath for approximately three whole hours. He fished his phone out of his pocket, opened the Spotify app and put his _Moody_ playlist on shuffle, trying to get his mind off things, if only for a few, laconic instants.

For some reason, a few fags and what felt like a road trip down Radiohead’s whole fucking discography later, Snow Patrol started playing. Richard rested his head against the seat cushion and tried to focus on getting his breathing back to normal.

_Can you heal me baby?_

_I've been wasted in the arms of everyone_

_I wasn't looking for you_

_But I think maybe I was and didn't know_

\---

Taron woke much more easily and normally than he was anticipating—considering that, even after opening his eyes, he still very clearly remembered strangely vivid and awfully dark images flashing before him in his slumber, and he would have thought it plausible that such dreams would wake him up in a fit of panic. They had not, however, and as he was raising his head from his pillow and sitting up on the now weirdly humid and kind of smelly side of the bed he’d been lying on, Taron found it that the weird love affair with gravity he’d been having just before collapsing was, thankfully, over.

His first reflex was to browse round for any sign of Richard. Snippets of that sublime concerned face—knitted brow and enormous blue eyes sporting what looked like a glistening sheen of tears—came flooding back, surprisingly clear in the midst of his jumbled-up memory. He turned towards the window, which was open, and the smell of the sea was vivifying, and the wind impossibly sweet on his damp, sticky skin, and he saw Richard perched on the white cushions of the balcony sofa, his shirt almost completely open, his hair dishevelled, his lips closed around the butt of a cigarette, cheeks lusciously hollowed out in the effort of taking a deep drag, and it was a sight that quite literally took Taron’s breath away.

_Mine. Mine? Maybe._

The sky was still extremely dark, and yet already sported the unmistakeable hues of purple and pink and red that one only witnessed right before a spectacular dawn over the Mediterranean Sea. Clouds were scattered all over, reflecting the hazy light of the Cannes morning as if they’d been drawn on by some old English romantic painter. Taron picked up his phone and the screen flashed brightly back at him, a little too bright for, now he knew, 5:23 AM. He briefly wondered whether Richard had had a single minute of sleep that past night, before collecting all his strength up and, _wow, look at that_ , actually getting off the bed.

At the shuffling coming from the bedroom, Richard’s head automatically turned round, his gaze falling onto the spot where Taron stood. Taron saw relief and disbelief appear on Richard’s face and observed him jumping to his feet in no time, hurrying, no, _darting_ towards him.

When Richard closed the distance between them in a few, swift steps, then reached out his hands to grab the side of Taron’s face and looked at him, ocean-blue orbs plunging into his soul, as if to check for any signs of him still being under the influence of that god-awful drug. This lasted approximately five seconds, the longest five seconds of Taron’s life, during which he felt his body being almost magnetically attracted to Richard’s—a strong, stirring force of nature taking hold of him and not letting go. Which is why, when Richard finally kissed him, softly, possessively, apprehensively, it felt like an impetuous whirlwind of faint cologne and cigarette smoke and sweat and _baby_ and _I’m so sorry_ had hit Taron square in the face. Richard’s lips on his were still as slightly chapped as they had been back in the bathroom at the club, yet felt pillowy and sweet and oh so _mellow_ , and they—no, _the whole of Richard_ , really, made his knees give way.

Neither of them seemed to quite register when or how, but they suddenly found themselves tumbling down on the bed, and Taron’s head was hit with an unannounced pang of discomfort, that really had no business showing up in that moment—when Richard was, once again, so impossibly hot and close and positively parched for his lips. The stupid migraine, back in full force after having blessed Taron with a few, fleeting moments of clarity right after waking up, made it so Taron had to squeeze his eyes shut in pain, which ended up alerting Richard, and the kissing was brought to an abrupt halt, but his soft thumb caressing Taron’s jawline stayed put.

“Y’alright, love?” said Richard, half against his lips, soothing, somewhat breathless. His weight shifted on his forearms—he perched himself up over Taron and started peering at him with that concerned mama bear look Taron had seen way too many fucking times on him for a single evening.

“Terrific,” Taron half-whispered back, his left hand coming up to stroke Richard’s broad, muscular chest, which for a second kind of felt like _too much_. “Never better.” And somehow, despite the throbbing pain in his temples, he really meant it.

“Oh, T. I thought ye were going to _die_ , for fuck’s sake.” Richard breathed, hotly, against his throat, then planted a firm kiss on the curve of his shoulder, and settled in there, clutching Taron tightly and apparently having no intention of letting go.

\---

Richard woke up without any recollection of falling asleep in the first place. He felt Taron’s warmth against his right side, unbearably close, and wondered at what point both their brains had decided to give up on them and let them doze off instead of continuing on the extremely thrilling tangent they’d been on only moments before—as in _snogging each other senseless_ , like two horny teenagers.

He really did not know what had gotten into him, rushing over to Taron like that. Taron had still looked extremely weak and pale, had barely just managed to get up, for crying out loud, and there Richard had come storming into the room like a vulture. He found he was very glad that, during the brief moment between reaching Taron’s side and making a move on him, he had at least gotten a chance to check on Taron’s eyes, and had discovered his pupils had gone back to their normal size, and that his eyes were indeed still bloodshot, but could now look back at him and see clearly.

After that, it had been like he’d momentarily lost control of his body—words had failed him in the worst way possible, and all his frustration and longing and willingness to envelop Taron in his arms had completely taken over his common sense. He’d barely paid attention to how he was coming across and had hardly registered what was happening when Taron was suddenly sighing into his mouth.

And then, like that, only a few minutes later, they’d just drifted off, holding each other tight. Richard’s hormones screamed at him that it did not make any fucking sense not to have be shagging Taron into the mattress back then, but his brain and the flicker of sanity he still had left knew that it was exactly what they both had needed. Lying down, together, Richard letting Taron know he was, quite simply, _there_. Whispering apologies and sweet nonsense against the soft skin of Taron’s neck, comforting and doing his best to heal him, to silence all the scary voices in the boy’s head that were making him screw his eyes shut in pain.

Then Richard made the effort to turn his head and look out the window—daylight already ablaze, piercing them through the wide-open balcony door, and he was immediately hit by a rush of panic.

_Fuck, what time is it?_

Somehow overlooking the fact that he was still wearing a fifteen-grand fuck-off watch on his wrist, he frantically patted his trouser pockets, scrabbling for his phone. When he finally dug it up, he was not as horrified as he had anticipated he’d be—it was only 7:53 AM. The photocall was at 10. They still had the better part of two hours to clean themselves up and get into those bloody suits and smile for the bloody cameras. Richard spared a thought for the fact that Mark, his PA, was supposed to drop his outfit off last night. He did not remember seeing it on the bed when he’d gone into his room to retrieve his cigarettes, which renewed the familiar spark of anxiety that had been hanging in the air for the past ten hours or so. No need to worry. Mark was always so reliable. Probably had just gone the extra mile and put his clothes in the ginormous wardrobe overlooking Richard’s bed.

_Probably._

\---

A gentle hand was shaking his shoulder, another was stroking his hair, painfully tender, and Taron did not remember ever being touched quite like this in his life. Trust Richard Madden to come crashing down on him and obliterate the memories of each and every other relationship he’d had since becoming sexually active.

When he finally opened his eyes—migraine now fully, miraculously gone—he was met with Richard’s lovesome, if only a little exhausted face, and immediately plunged into the bluest of blues. The _way_ Richard was looking at him. Taron figured it was just as well they were still lying on a bed, because a sight like that would most likely have made him ungracefully collapse onto the carpet, had he been standing up.

And then Richard’s lips met his forehead, on the edge of his hairline. A fierce, possessive smooch, which rendered words completely futile, because Taron found he understood perfectly well. This was Richard’s way to convey how relieved he was that everything was okay. Except maybe for the fact that the kiss had felt a tad too intense for that to be the only meaning behind it, but Taron pushed that thought to the back of his mind for future consideration, because Richard was talking, now, and the croak in his voice was bordering on obscene, and his accent was like honey, and the words “G’mornin’, sweetheart” were uttered, and Taron was brought back to the way he’d been grinding on Richard during karaoke the night before, and was once again reduced into a messy jumble of _want_.

“Rich…” he breathed, hands immediately reaching up to cup Richard’s face and pulling him in for a ferocious kiss, which, he was pleased to find, was on Richard’s agenda as well. It was all teeth and tongue and humming into each other, and heavy breathing, and, oh, God, was that Richard’s _cock_ pushing up against his left thigh, and was Richard actually climbing on top of him right now? At that, Taron momentarily lost all self-restraint and found himself, quite literally, begging.

“Please, Richard, please, I need you so bad…”

He felt Richard _growl_ against the spot he’d been sucking on his neck and chuckle slightly, before coming back up to face him. His lips were back on Taron’s in no time, pecking him, grinning.

“So fucking rude we were interrupted last night, innit?” he asked, punctuating each word with a wet kiss.

“Barbaric,” Taron managed, moaning softly, gripping the sides of Richard’s shirt and tugging to undo the last few buttons, which surprisingly gave way without completely popping off.

“D’you mind, ye absolute brute?” came in Richard, his brow furrowed in a fake-shocked expression. “It’s a _three-hundred-quid_ shirt.”

“Oh, piss off, Madden.”

Richard bit down hard on his lower lip while shimmying out of his light blue Zegna number—which Taron knew he would never be able to look at the same way ever again—and commanded “Shower, Taron.”

\---

Richard was on a roll, quite literally fighting against the clock, still trying to be rational about this and compartmentalise whatever the fuck was happening on that bed, by simultaneously considering the fact that they were due out of that room only one and a half-odd hours later.

There was absolutely no way on God’s green Earth Richard was going to rush this—it was too special, too good, and he’d been waiting for this too bloody long to simply consummate everything in the space of a mere quarter of an hour. Also, he was painfully aware of the fact that, once they got started, they wouldn’t for the life of them be able to stop. What _was_ reasonable, instead, was showering, because they were both sticky and had admittedly smelled much better. Richard mentally declined all responsibility in case any of them (Taron) should be hit by a mind-boggling orgasm.

He was surprised at his own strength when he managed to quite literally lift Taron up from the bed, felt Taron’s legs immediately close up around his pelvis, and, was immediately reminded that, _shit_ , Taron was down to his fucking boxers, and the scorch of his erection against Richard’s lower abdomen ripped through him like a tornado.

“Fucking hell, T,” he heard himself say, pressing against the glass wall of the spacious shower and searching for and finding more friction between their crotches, making Taron gasp and groan. He was sounding like lust personified, right then, and Richard instantly knew that needed to take the rest of his clothes off right the fuck now, to avoid coming into his pants like a randy sixteen-year-old. He put Taron down and kissed him again, languidly, all tongue, and Taron hummed in his mouth, and _God_ Richard had never wanted anyone more than he wanted him.

"Take these off, _now_ ," Taron instructed simply, as he'd just read Richard's mind. He tugged at Richard’s belt buckle and made a right mess of trying to get it open—it was one of those stupid canvas belts one would wear on a yacht in the middle of August, and frankly too dang casual for Richard bloody Madden, and the way it folded on the buckle was apparently too complex for Taron’s brain to properly process in the messy, wanton state he was in.

Richard undid the belt in a swift, one-handed motion. Felt very smug and very fucking _sexy_ doing that, too. He watched as Taron literally gawped at him for a split-second, cheeks flushed, lips red and raw, skin glistening with a melange of old and new perspiration, and thought he’d lose his bloody mind if either of them was to stay dressed for even one second longer.

He tugged at Taron’s boxers, aggressively and with purpose, sliding them all the way down while he bent over to bite down on the softest bit of skin, where his lower belly met his hipbone, and almost got lost in the heat and the feeling and the _smell_ of him, and in the fact that, fucking hell, Taron was finally _naked_ in front of him—and no blasted cameras were around, either.

\---

The sight of Richard, on his knees before him, breath scorching his cock, sucking a mark on Taron’s pelvis as if he wanted to _claim_ him, was simply staggering. Taron’s fingers automatically found Richard’s hair, and started caressing it, fondly, possessively, like he was afraid Richard could suddenly change his mind and stop whatever he was doing that was deepening his arousal to the point of making him writhe, trying to rock his hips against any part of Richard that he could reach, desperate for any kind of friction.

Another rumble from Richard against his skin—he was now gripping at both his hips and had closed his eyes, lost in the sensation finally being able to touch him the way he’d been yearning to, kissing every inch of skin in the most soul-shatteringly erotic way—and Taron was absolutely bloody done for. He brought a second hand into Richard’s hair, knotting his fingers in the luscious locks, and making the excruciating effort of pulling him away, slightly.

Blue eyes flicked inquiringly up at him from where Richard was kneeling on the floor, his trousers half-off, a dazed, lustful expression all over his stupid pretty face, and Taron just wanted to come right there and then, but he was still desperate to get Richard completely naked and grind against him under the spray.

“ _Jesus_ , Rich,” he panted, admiring the absolute sight that was Richard Madden, on the floor, face dangerously close to his throbbing erection. “Why on _earth_ are you still wearing clothes?”

Richard looked at him and let out a raspy, wicked laugh. He ran his tongue over his lower lip and let his teeth follow through, biting down and effectively painting a picture directly taken from one of Taron’s numerous wet dreams about the man.

“Eager, are we, _sweetheart_?” Richard asked, and the pet name went directly to Taron’s cock. Richard then proceeded to get back on his feet and kick his trousers and pants off, his statuesque body at last exposed for Taron to suitably venerate. Taron practically threw himself at Richard, magnetism taking a hold of his body once again, his hands desperately running over Richard’s chest, his neck, his abs, his hips—not quite yet daring to graze his erection, however.

Richard pressed against him, strong body edging him towards the entrance to the giant shower, and it thankfully did not take Taron too long to get the hint. He walked backwards into the spacious booth, never breaking eye contact with Richard—who was looking at him like he could eat him up at any given moment—and rummaged with the excessively hi-tech controls to get the water flowing. Finally, the water started falling in a mesmerising cascade, like a rainfall from the ceiling, and the LED lights around the shower head kind of made it look like they were in a porno, but Taron found he did not really care, since the vision of Richard—naked, glorious, hard in the dim, soft light—was something Taron would be bringing back up over and over during future alone time.

And then Richard was stepping into the shower, too, closing the sliding doors behind him in a way Taron found just stupidly smooth, he was backing Taron against the wall, and somewhat towering him. Richard was under the cascading lukewarm water, now, and his body, all slicked and wet, looked more appealing than ever.

Richard ran a hand through his soaked hair and murmured “You drive me fucking _insane_ , Taron,” and Taron really wanted to retort something like _You’re one to talk, Madden_ or _Have you ever looked in a mirror_ , but was rudely cut off by Richard abruptly reaching out to stop the water flow, and dropping to his fucking _knees_ , again. Jesus, the look in his eyes—very little blue left in them, just endless pupils scanning Taron’s cock, ravenous.

\---

From the spot on the floor he was kneeling on, cold marble against his shins, water still dripping down his whole body from his brief spell under the spray, Richard admired the exquisite spectacle that was Taron Egerton, naked and hard—hard for _him_. His back resting against the cream-coloured wall, breathing raggedly, _Jesus, Rich, what are you doing to me?_ , looking down at Richard in what one could only assume was a mixture of adoration, arousal and urgent anticipation. Which was why Richard couldn’t find it in himself to waste even just a second more.

Richard heard himself sighing out loud, perfectly satisfied, and almost a little relieved, when he started stroking up and down Taron’s firm, thick, _perfect_ thighs with both his hands, all the while looking up at him, hoping to God his gaze was intense enough to convey how absolutely bloody smitten he was and how much, how _long_ he’d waited for this. Taron’s skin was incandescent against his palms, and the sight of his cock, well, absolutely bloody _delicious_. Richard tentatively moved closer, hot breath grazing Taron’s aching length, lips parting slightly, exasperatingly close, but not quite close enough.

The _noises_ Richard got out of Taron at that turned out to have been worth each and every second he’d spent torturing himself during the past year or so. He’d been positive for quite some time that resolving the unbearable tension between them would not have paid off, that it would only have brought about trouble, that it would have quite literally destroyed them. Funny how the universe, fate, _God?_ occasionally took control out of people’s hands and decided that some things were simply just meant to be. Right place, right time, and all that shite. Exactly where Richard felt he was at that moment, seconds before closing his lips around the leaking head of Taron’s dick.

“Oh, holy sh—ughhh, Rich, _fucking hell_ ,” Taron moaned, loud, indecent, and Richard observed him bringing a hand up to his hair, resting there, maybe even slightly pulling—Richard wasn’t sure, he just labelled the sight as _indecent_ , admired it for a fleeting second, and then moved on.

Taron’s words made Richard hum contently, and he really wanted to smirk up at him, but resolved to swallow more of him instead, making a point of swirling his tongue around his tip, the salty, slightly bitter taste positively numbing his senses. He kept going, until he felt Taron’s cock—hot, thick, _wonderful_ —hit the back of his throat. Momentarily breaking eye contact, Richard pressed his face closer to Taron’s body, taking him deeper, his gag reflex nowhere to be found. He contently nuzzled into the short, fair curls on Taron’s crotch, while his hands came up to cup the perfect, peachy arse he’d been dreaming about for roughly as long as they’d known each other.

And then, like that, he moved his head back, taking Taron out of his mouth with a loud pop, one of his hands coming to grab the slick, glistening length and stroking it with all the purpose he’d gathered up during the interminable months of sleepless nights spent alone in his bed, fantasising about this happening. His gaze then darted back up to meet Taron’s, only to discover he had thrown his head back against the wall, arching his back into Richard’s touch, and his kiss-swollen lips were agape—all in all, he was the most beautiful thing Richard had ever seen in his life.

\---

“Rich, _what the_ _fuck_ ,” Taron blurted, and he found his voice was hoarse from breathing so heavily through his mouth, the moisture all but gone. “What the _actual fuck_ was that.” A question without a question mark, because Taron could not believe what had just happened, nor what was happening still, and was somehow dead serious about it, too. Disbelief, arousal, lust, astonishment—a delightful cocktail of ecstatic feelings was now rushing through his veins at the fresh memory of the warm, scorching feeling of Richard’s mouth wrapped around him, as well as the piercing, hungry look the man directed at him from his spot down on the floor, gripping possessively at Taron’s left buttock and running infinite long fingers up and down his cock.

When he heard Richard ask, “Is this alright, baby?” in that thick, mellifluous brogue, Taron momentarily thought he’d discorporated.

Not quite grasping how he managed to actually reply with anything other than a rambling plea for more, Taron went, “Hmm-hmm,” then added, “I could honestly die happy, right now.”

The chuffed grin Taron got from Richard at that was rapidly followed by him starting to plant open-mouthed, wet, tongue-charged kisses all over Taron’s cock again, making him squirm and arch his back even further, the hand in his own hair coming down to push against the wall for support. The sweet, sweet agony of Richard’s pillowy lips against the most sensitive part of his body—heck, the _sound_ of the whole thing, wet, filthy, mind-numbing—forced Taron’s other hand to make its way through the perfect strands of Richard’s dark hair, forcing himself not to tug at it, and miserably failing, because the jolts of pleasure at every little attention Richard was giving his cock were becoming simply too much to bear.

 “Ye have absolutely no idea how bloody long I’ve wanted to do this, T,” Richard said, in-between a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to the side of Taron’s prick and a long, heartfelt squeeze on his bum that screamed _mine_.

“God, Rich, me too, you’re— _fuck_ ,” Taron barely managed, just as Richard’s hand grazed his balls, softly teasing him. “How are you even doing th— _ughh_ please, need more, please, love,” Taron intoned, a supplication more than anything, his head hitting the wall once again, his eyes screwed shut, his hips pressing into Richard, desperate for his warmth. Unable to make any more sense, since Richard’s tongue was now circling his tip, Taron echoed, “Please, Rich, _please_.”

“Asking so nicely,” Richard purred, delighted. “My gorgeous, _perfect_ boy,” he said, right before letting Taron’s cock sink into his mouth once again.

The silky, wet feeling was too much for Taron to stop himself from bucking his hips into Richard’s throat, at which he whimpered and murmured a weak “S-sorry…” down at him.

Richard did not seem to have minded, though, because his right hand quickly came up to his own head, meeting Taron’s fingers tangled up in the messy brown hair and pressing against them, enabling Taron in the most enticing, filthy way possible.

“Oh, Richard, _fuckfuckfuck_ ,” Taron babbled, the words _holy Moses_ improbably popping up in his mind when Richard finally set a steady pace, bobbing his head up and down his cock, working him into oblivion.

Taron was unsure whether he was keener on the strong vibrations of Richard’s moans around his length, or the fact that Richard was now actually hollowing his cheeks and sucking in earnest, and looking quite obscene while doing so, too. There was _something_ he was positive of, though, and he confusedly managed to voice that in a flurry of _so fucking close_ and _love_ and _please, don’t stop_.

Richard’s grip on his arse was now so strong it was surely leaving a trail of marks, and Taron was well aware of the meaning behind that firmness. Richard was letting months and months of painful yearning for each other’s touch melt away, and he was positively hungry for every inch of Taron’s body, and the complete and utter _possessiveness_ of it all, coupled of course with Richard’s frankly superb efforts on his dick, sent Taron over the edge way more quickly than he’d wanted to.

He came, way harder than he’d ever before, spurting hot and thick down Richard’s throat, thrusting into him, mortified at the vehemence of his hips, unable to help himself. He saw actual fireworks behind his closed eyes as his orgasm ripped through him, violent, raw, devastating, and he wanted to say so much in that moment, but he found his brain absolutely failed him.

\---

Seeing Taron come undone like that, tasting his sweet release, feeling him quite literally everywhere, made Richard’s whole body shudder impertinently. He had never imagined he could get so worked up just by getting someone off. Granted, he had never been selfish when it came to sex, he very much enjoyed being on the giving end at the best of times, but this, once again, had felt unlike anything he’d ever done before. Then again, Taron had always been _different_ , in some weird, impossible way—as in, everything was always so stupidly easy and effortless with him, Richard never really had to try hard around him. It only made sense, then, that he now found himself at the absolute peak of his arousal, although he’d barely touched himself, too busy worshipping Taron’s body and too concentrated in trying to show the boy how much he wanted—heck, _loved_ him, in fact.

When Richard slid Taron out of his mouth and he stood up again, feeling a little dizzy, his mind clouded and still on the most perfect edge, he drank in the magnificent sight of his friend— _lover?_ —panting his way through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and couldn’t stifle a shameless groan. The sound seemed to snap Taron out of his blissful state and regain control of his body. Both his hands found Richard’s painfully hard cock surprisingly quickly and started stroking, lust-darkened eyes penetrating him with the determined, purposeful look that Richard had seen so many times on set—incidentally, one of the many reasons he could not get enough of the man. At that, Richard felt his knees starting to give way, which he remedied to by instinctively resting his head on Taron’s shoulder, leaning into him.

Taron’s small, delicate hands felt smooth and as soft as the silk sheets they’d just spent the night on, and the calculated pressure he was applying on his cock was simply too delicious for Richard to last even a single second more. After what felt like a single heartbeat of Taron touching him like that, the insistent spark in Richard’s lower abdomen set the rest of his body ablaze, and he climaxed too, shooting hot and high and powerful all over Taron’s stomach, chest and hands, shamelessly crying out yet managing an incoherent stream of speech, which he was pretty sure contained lots of obscenities, as well as Taron’s name, abbreviated to a single consonant, and the four-letter word that had been haunting him for months on end.

_This, indeed, is going to be a wild ride._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This honestly felt like giving birth, so I really, _really_ hope you enjoyed it.  
> Complete credit for the kiss/talk moment goes to phoenix_rose. That's all them and I bow down low.  
> Comments and kudos are the air I breathe, as usual.  
> I appreciate you all so much for being… patient about this. Wow, I really suck, don’t I.


End file.
